


Song of the Ancients

by BloomTwist



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon Divergence, Choices, Conspiracy Theories, Crack Treated Seriously, Defying Fate, Dreams and Nightmares, Family of Choice, Fix-It, HOLY, Immolation, M/M, Pitioss Theory, Prophecy, Secrets, Self-Sacrifice, Slow Build, Team Ifrit (Final Fantasy), Trickster Gods, Window, good is not nice, oblivious idiots in love, tags are terrible but it’s more or less a damned comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-04-18 04:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloomTwist/pseuds/BloomTwist
Summary: Ignis is plagued with nightmares of a dark sky full of stars, ash in his mouth, a convalescent body shivering on his arms,  a loving tone in words he cannot hear and lips he cannot read, and the hum of power as the pyre around them lights.Prompto has no dreams, yet he sees things that aren’t there: flowers he later learns are long extinct, fractals of light when sunlight pours through leaves, cracks of light on the statues of the Old Kings.There is something in him that sings when he first sees Ignis handle fire. There is something in Ignis that screams when he sees Prompto in black.There is a prophecy too –one they will destroy.Even If they have to burn.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was done for the [Promnised Land Big-bang 2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/promnisedlandbigbang2017) but this got out of control. I’m posting it now that’s almost over.  
> Updates every Friday!  
> The amazing Mish did an [awesome art piece](http://fungusamongus.tumblr.com/post/172590605961/so-this-was-a-cover-for-bloomandcoffee-s-super) for this fic, go and show him lots of love.  (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> (Talk Promnis to me at my [Tumblr](https://bloomandcoffee.tumblr.com/)!)

“I wish for a different outcome.”

In his arms, Prompto snorts before coughing violently, blood pouring from his mouth; from the wound on his stomach. The wet sound and the feeling of blood on his fingers paralyzes Ignis with fear for a moment they don’t have time for anymore, and instead of loosening he tightens his hold. 

“Ignis,  _ this _ is the different outcome,” Prompto says eventually, voice roughened but still filled with the same sunny good-natured humor. “Well, not yet. But you get me.”

He does. Astrals be damned, but he does.

Even in the soft light, with the world around them falling apart, Prompto dazzles.

Ignis chuckles. Even at the end, he can’t stop thinking in puns. 

Around them the world roars, but Ignis has no time for it. Not anymore. 

“I have no regrets. Not really,” Prompto adds contently, and caresses Ignis’ face slow and hesitant.

Ignis understands, leaning on the touch, seconds away from their role being over. And yet even while wishing for a different outcome he can’t find any regrets.

Perhaps not being there to advise his Prince anymore. But at least, this way, he and Prompto…

“You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone” he promises quietly. A regret. A vow. He could have done with a different outcome; could have thought of one. But in the end it wouldn’t be feasible with the cards already stacked.

Prompto nods, eyes shining with the unsaid. There is no need for words at this point; not when they can feel each other. 

He can see another arrow forming in his wrist, and he knows what that means. Has known what it would become from his dreams. The price for changing fate was for another to take course. Sacrifice demanded sacrifice. This ought to be enough. 

Prompto Argentum is a terrific man, and he will die with him in the Pyre they created. 

“Together,” he confirms, lips ghosting over Prompto’s. 

Prompto closes his eyes, as if trying to savor their last moment, and leans forward to whisper on his ear. “Always.”

Ignis nods, tightening his hold, and breathes in slowly, lacing their fingers together in a last moment of strength and intimacy. He can feel the fire beneath his skin; taste the ashes on his tongue; the coldness of Prompto. He breathes out and the air blazes around them, a thorough blaze the fruit of years of countless nightmares before this night, all in preparation for this moment. He’s ready. 

“Let’s do this.”

  
  



	2. Overture

 

The nightmares started when Ignis was eight. It was the first time he’d been back to his grandfather’s mansion after being chosen as the Prince’s future advisor. The day had been gray, just like their mood, even when doing their best to connect warmly and be as empathic as possible. 

News of his parents’ death arrived a week before, and it weighted on their minds. More on his grandfather’s than his. Ignis parents were barely there when they were alive, too busy with their duties in the noble council (his mother) or the rebellion efforts in Accordo (his father).Then at six Ignis had been chosen as the future royal advisor. They loved him. Of that he has no doubt. But they taught him how a noble’s duty comes before family. 

On the other hand, his grandfather had raised his mother, and then had loved his father like a son. So much so that he’d welcomed his father’s brother into the family, and had bestow upon him the title of honorary Scientia. For his grandfather, who had lost his wife a decade ago, losing two of his children at once must be a heavy blow.

They had tried to reconnect with anecdotes, with games. They eventually had some luck with the latter. Ignis had always loved association games, and his grandfather had found ways to make it entertaining while upping the ante: first linear associations, then in a matrix, then in a matrix with a timer. 

Night had found them in a heated game that Ignis knew his grandfather had let him win. He had denied all accusations with outdated jargon and gregarious humor before insisting he go to sleep. “You young’uns are too lively these days. Oh my dreary bones!” he’d jested, theatrically hunched and with a hand on his back.

Ignis hadn’t wanted to sleep, acutely aware that tomorrow afternoon he would be escorted back to the Citadel and this could be the last time he saw his grandfather. It was ludicrous to waste precious hours in sleep when they had finally connected.

He had then asked permission to see his grandfather, and after a long deliberation of the noble council King Regis had accepted. But Ignis knew better than to believe it was a carte blanche that he could use to visit anytime without a limit. 

His grandfather had been exiled from the Citadel and the noble council by King Regis on his first act as a monarch. Therefore, when the King had approached him and offered the honorable duty of being the future King’s advisor, he had not been able to go back. After all, those who worked directly for the crown were forbidden to have contact with any the Crown exiled. 

Ignis knew his merits, and knew he’d earned his spot as the prince’s advisor, but he could also recognize a political maneuver when he saw one. Exercising the royal right to exile, no matter how heavily justified it could be, brought uneasiness to the court. His grandfather had been the head of the noble council and advisor to King Mors, and the current King had exiled him as his first royal act. Even if Grandfather's seat was taken by his daughter, the message was sent. 

Yet his grandfather had insisted on bed time.  _ “Even sharp minds need some rest Ignis,” _ he had cajoled while leading him to his room. It was clean, but nothing had been changed since the last time he was there.  

Ignis usually dreamt of nothing, already used to maximizing rest in his steadily diminishing sleeping schedule. That night however, his dream was packed in blazes.

_ There is smoke, and clouds of dust in the air but not enough to cover the sky above. It is pitch black, littered with a multitude of stars so brilliant unlike what he's ever seen in Insomnia. It would be magnificent, instead what he feels is a wrongness so profound it chills his bones, squeezes his throat, and heavies his heart as it beats frantically on its merry way to destroy his ribcage. _

_ He wheezes more than he breathes, each breath echoed by someone else.  _

_ It startles Ignis; makes him aware of the weight in his arms. A mess of torn clothes, pale hair that once had been sunny gold, and fair skin purpling in malaise. He’s holding them so tightly he’d thought it was another part of him. _

_ They were outside. He wants to scream, maybe he does, he can’t hear over the roar of earth and destruction in his ears. The person in his arms is not answering, and so he shakes, and shakes, falling to his knees, lips dry with ash and blood. _

_ He tries to stop. Maybe shaking could break their neck. Maybe they died and he doesn’t know. Maybe- _

_ The person in his arms opens their eyes. Ignis has never seen such a lovely shade of clear blue with specks of violet. They are inhuman; hypnotizing; he could get lost in them… had not one of the sclera been tainted black.  _

_ He tries to get away but his arms are set like a vice, and only grip tighter when the person smiles charmingly before tensing as their whole body shakes in a violent cough. They spew black liquid, wetting his shoulder, and the fluid eats his flesh almost like acid.  _

_ The gaze of infected eyes clears, grows apologetic, and Ignis feels blood boil on their behalf. This person is beautiful, and dying. Ignis knows it in the marrow of his very bones. They’re suffering and they’re dying and there is nothing Ignis can do. His lungs burn, his eyes start to water, and they burn. He can’t find the words. He doesn’t know what is happening, yet all he can do is focus on that face. _

_ Lies. _

_ There is something he can do. There is something he must do to spare a tortured death. To prevent this suffering. To free them both.  _

_ They must burn. _

_ The shackles of duty fasten on his neck with a severity he’s never felt before. _

_ They both must die, must burn to ashes. _

_ It’s the only way. _

_ He looks back and the blond in his arms smiles, skin paler by the second. They nod before caressing Ignis’s cheek (it burns and he can feel his skin break but he would never,  _ ever _ , refuse it), lips moving into something he can’t hear, can’t read, but knows,  _ knows _ is tender and loving. _

_ The taste of ash grows stronger, and gradually Ignis feels feverish warm. There is something in his veins that hums, that sings, calming him with tenacity and purpose.  He breathes in the dust and ash, and breathes out steam so hot the heat haze is not only an image, but is scorching the earth around them, turning little pebbles into glass. _

_ He breathes the chaos in once more and breathes out blazes so white and clear that they engulf the sky. _

_ Ignis had never been burned. His mother was very strict and had explained to him as early as possible the dangers of handling fire recklessly. So Ignis, like a good child, never tried it. He knows the heat; had even shut down a candle with his fingers once. _

_ But nothing had ever prepared him for the agony of having his flesh burn.  _

He was shaken awake by his grandfather. Those faded green eyes showed nothing but concern as he straightened and pulled him close. 

He had taken care of Ignis with the mastery of wisdom and old age while he babbled and stopped shaking. He had clung to his grandfather until his vision cleared, and felt the ache of his fingers from grabbing too tight.

He could taste ashes in his mouth no matter how repeatedly he washed his mouth. Grandfather had not commented on it, only procuring more water and tea until Ignis had tired and accepted the taste would stay until he got over his nightmare.

“What the King knows not won’t concern him,” his grandfather whispered on the crown of his head, voice warm and sagely. 

Ignis could read between the lines. He was aware that having a record of a visit to a psychologist would show an opening on his résumé that the savage and envious would exploit the moment they fancied his place in the royal duties. 

It was too steep a risk for an event that might be a one-time thing.

It was natural, Ignis theorized on his trip back to the Citadel. His parents had died brutally. He was young and it was the first time the war had touched him personally. All kids had active imaginations, and in times of war anguished dreams were commonplace. He just had to do what all soldiers did and pull through them. 

It was a good thing, he had concluded when his first class of the day began, handling this experience would help him in taking the best care of the night terrors of war that his Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum would eventually have.

(He had not expected to have to use them so soon. Then again, he had not expected Tenebrae to fall either.)  

  
  
  


 

Ignis was eleven when he cleared all his courses, beginning to take on more advanced duties, and headed back to his grandfather’s house. By suggestion of the council, he was granted monthly visits to the Count’s estate, and Ignis would not waste them.

(That he had tweaked a few sentimentalities in the council to earn that permission was not something that could be proved.)

The nightmares did not go away; in fact they had become more vivid. There were times he could feel the ashes in his mouth; had been wary a whole week of a Glaive with long blonde hair (he had stopped when he realized she had brown eyes and the blonde hair was actually bleached), and had thought the room temperature to be too hot only to find it actually was too cold. Prince Noctis found it hilarious, and he endured a shameful talk with Lord Amicitia about growing and becoming a man and,  _ “It is not unusual to start younger than average when your duties are heavy.”  _

He’d done his best to ignore the nightmares, whenever he’s not justifying them, or the sensations they leave behind. In any case they had helped him to handle Noctis’ dream terrors in a spectacular fashion and gained commendation from the King himself. At that point he was just glad Noctis could sleep peacefully at night. He was so young and so bright. Ignis swore he would do his best to protect him, guide him, and stay by his side until he was no longer needed.

Something he couldn’t achieve with only the studies he has received and his own self-education.

Grandfather had been the head of the council and a former advisor of the King. He had no better mentor, and no one he trusted more.

“Good to see you my boy!” he’d greeted with genuine and infectious joy, but curiously no surprise. “Come in, come in.”

Grandfather had three more lines on his forehead, his hair had grayed, and the skin on his hands was somehow thinner. His faded green eyes were still sharp though, his posture commanding even while wearing a gardening overall, and the hand on his shoulder guiding him inside was strong.

It took two hours of cajoling, games, gardening, and small talk before Ignis finally broached the subject. After three more meetings with the same content, his excitement at having his grandfather accept his proposition ran dry.

“More games?” Ignis did not complain. They were challenging, but took the better part of an afternoon, and Ignis simply had no time for it when he could invest on training and learning. 

Grandfather could be explaining some of his problem solving, but instead they were again in the sunroom – beautiful and elegant with a dash of lavish, just like the rest of the mansion – and he just sat down, unconcerned, and procured a key from inside his sleeve.

Ignis sits, only because it is the polite thing to do, and then added, “I need to excel at strategy. I asked you to coach me.”

“Why Ignis, haven't we been doing that?” grandfather parried mildly with a practice,d polite smile promising nothing less than mayhem. One day Ignis himself would be able to emulate it. “What else is strategy but a gamble while aware of more details?”

“Reality has no set of rules,” Ignis countered with logic, reining in the urge to cross his arms, acutely aware how his feet were pointing to his grandfather.

“Oh but there are a few,” was the mirthful reply while he procured a deck from a nearby drawer. “Some rules are transparent in their finesse. Others are bold. Death, for example.”

Ignis blinked, taking the piece of information and pondering on it one way and then another. His grandfather shuffled the deck before he arrived to a conclusion. “That is manipulation.”

“If you’ve reached this far, you are not unfamiliar with it,” his grandfather dismissed, waving one hand while the other remained on the deck. “Just keep calling it the name you’ve chosen. Yet if you focus on that aspect alone, your duties to the royal house will be impaired.” The given smile was affable and studied, but the inflexion in his voice made Ignis shiver to attention. It was a mix of warning and steel.

There he was, the former advisor of the King. The former head to the noble council.

“Of course.” The answer was automatic. This was his goal in the first place.

“Now, let us play this game,” he began, smile unchanged, and flipped an Ace of hearts made with gears. “You know the rules of Blackjack.”

(Ignis lost badly, and learned more about cheating in a card game than any seasoned noble does in five years.)

  
  
  


 

Ignis was sixteen when he officially met Gladiolus Amicitia, Noctis’ sworn Shield. 

They had seen each other quite a few times, in corridors, a glance by the training facilities and by title, as two people in charge of the same person are wont to do. Only now, at sixteen, he truly  _ meets _ him.

Ignis had chosen to undergo Crownsguard training. He was aware of the situation with Niflheim and had no doubts that Prince Noctis would be called to the battlefield whether by necessity or by tragedy. When that happened, Ignis wanted to be a helping hand; another blade to aid him. He wouldn’t carry his grandfather’s regrets.

One day Gladiolus called him aside and asked for a spar.

It didn’t go as planned.

It started mild, which in retrospect should have been suspicious. Gladiolus wasn’t his father – at least not yet – but Lord Amicitia had conducted his pressure test, and Ignis had known what  _ mild _ meant for the King’s Shield; what it hid.

The spar had been demanding, as expected: brutal swings and strong tackles. He was quick on his feet despite the heavy sword. Quick enough to keep Ignis on his toes, and not give him enough time to analyze the openings – or exploit them when found.

The talk, however, wasn’t.

“Is that all you have for your King, for your Prince?” he’d said between yawns. 

“Maybe you should leave the guarding to someone better,” he’d mocked when Ignis had barely avoided the hilt of the sword.

“Would you ever kill for your Prince?” he challenged as they exchanged blows, and laughed when Ignis had landed him on the floor after a tricky quick step. “You seem to be the type to cry and hesitate at the last moment.”

Those Ignis had been able to ignore expertly, the words anything but a stranger to him since he the start of his Crownsguard training. It had been a fuss – it still was – when he’d decided to enlist. If Gladiolus wanted to distract him, he ought to do better.

“About your loyalty,” Gladiolus began, friendly, and Ignis catches something off with his tone. “If the King commanded you to execute your grandfather, would you do it?”

Ignis faltered, and Gladiolus took the opening like a shark on fresh meat. The blow of the sword was enough to stun him, yet he still moved. He struck the with butt of a knife underneath the shield’s left shoulder, and it was only his opponent’s years of experience that saved him from leaving with a maimed left elbow.

“I will not suffer you question my loyalty to his Highness,” Ignis hissed once he was free of the hold, part out of breath and part restrained anger.

The Prince’s shield smiled, all teeth. “Is it? It was the mention of your exiled grandfather that left you on the floor.”

Ignis frowned fiercely, incensed, and changed the grip on his knives with a tight turn. 

In the next swing, he parried the sword to a standstill with one knife, clean and swift. Using the momentum, he lunged forward, aiming right for the exposed jaw with his free knife. 

Gladiolus ducked and discarded his sword, lunging mid-crouch and tackle him with enough force to send him back a few meters. Ignis goes with the momentum, slamming one knife to the ground to halt his rolling once he’s out of the sword’s swinging range. 

It was not until the faint sound of sizzling registered that he became aware of the heat on his hands, or the light on his blades, and froze. He spared Gladiolus just one moment before looking at his blades; at the flames dancing around their edges, slow and heavy, the inscriptions on each glowing as the fire curled around every letter and sigil. 

He’d already burnt his grandfather and his uncle last year. It was an accident. They would carry the evidence of his mistakes for the rest of their lives. He did not deserve such coddling and compassion. 

Not when he lost control of it.

This could be worse. They were in a public place. In addition, it was the Citadel. His opponent was the future King’s Shield. Only his reflexes avoided the strike and the burn – and Ignis didn’t want to know the scandal that would fall on him if he had gotten Gladiolus.

At least Ignis had already gone through the Awakening Ceremony, so no one would question his magic manifestation.

When he looked up Gladiolus was fine. He was sweaty, but all exposed skin is unburnt. In fact, he’d finished patting down the burning fabric on his left arm in afterthought as he reached for his discarded sword. 

The other only smirked, readying his stance, shock long gone. “Well, it seems that struck a  _ nerve _ didn’t it?” 

His glare was answer enough, and any fear of accidentally burning him took a backseat. He would wipe that insufferable smirk off his face. He would never allow anyone to question his loyalty to the crown. The flames on his knives grew smooth and even as he readied them. 

Whatever test the Prince’s Shield wanted to issue, he would find Ignis has sharper fangs and little regard for honor if properly incited.

(Ignis lost the spar. Wielding magic for a sustained amount of time depleted his stamina and, loathe as he is to admit it to that smirking face, the difference in experience showed. Yet, somehow, he gained Gladiolus’ respect. 

A year later, he would meet Countess Elshett’s youngest daughter, and he would understand the joy of wielding fire in a spar.)

  
  
  


 

Ignis is eighteen when his nightmares catch up to him. 

To access the private library in the Citadel one needs the permission of the royal family. As the advisor of the future King, he has permission, and it had been granted the very moment it was discovered he wielded fire. The collection after all has tomes upon tomes of magic theory and manipulation. Although Noctis’ training of his magic is secret, it is the duty of all sworn to the crown that develop magic to understand the gift and master it themselves.

He has been nothing but excellent in the accomplishing of his duties. Magic of course will be no different with the tools at hand. 

That he already has an uncanny affinity and command over fire only spurns him forward. Last week he’d finally been able to set both of his daggers on fire without melting the metal. Now he’d have to focus on its speed and shape.

He’s going through the familiar shelves when he notices a new book. It is both curiosity and a nagging suspicion that draws him in. Ignis has learned to not ignore it by now, it was useful the first years learning how to wield fire; helped him discern the books that were pertinent. 

The book is old. There is dust on its back, but still in good shape. The hardcover is rugged leather, and the pages are waxy and thin. In it spins a story about creation, of Astrals and men and trials. There are beautiful hand drawings and an excellent use of grays in some small paintings. Not exactly his fancy, but as an advisor he should broaden his knowledge in diverse topics.

He still leafs through them though – he’s never been a devout man – until his fingers tingle. The page in question has its upper corner bent; that’s what catches his attention. It is the end of a chapter which finalizes on a grim note.

_ Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To usher in Dawn's Light will cost the life of the Chosen.  _

_ Many sacrificed all for the King, so must the King sacrifice himself for all. _

_ Set forth and gather strength, O Chosen. The fate of this world falls to the King of Kings, His Providence consecrated in the divine Light of the Crystal. So it is ordained. _

Ignis is barely finished before he’s crossing his arms, throwing the filthiest glare he can muster to the book.  Those words unreasonably irritate Ignis, makes him want to stand up and interrupt with an objection.

Somehow this last part has not the pull of a fantasy. He rereads the words with clear disdain, and wonders what egregious person could write this absurdity. Yet he can’t stop thinking about them. Something in their phrasing familiar. 

It is something that he should know but hasn’t clicked. It’s annoying. It’s almost a futile task, just as bargaining with the Prince to eat a few vegetables.

The Prince… 

Ignis reads the passage again, leaning on the bookshelf behind him, thoughts unraveling.

King Regis is old. Ignis knows the tide of war is turning against them, and he knows Noctis has always wondered what being the chosen King means. Ignis hadn’t, dismissing it entirely as a sign of his prince having the opportunity to change tides and end the war in favor of Lucis. Or so King Regis had led him to believe.

A grave miscalculation.

He quickly writes down the poem, pen scratching the paper it its haste and pressure. Then, after putting the book back in the self, making sure no one would notice it had been read, he walks briskly out of the Citadel.

_ The King ascends the throne and will die. _

_ So it has been told. _

Cold settles under his ribs. Unacceptable. If this is a prophecy Ignis will prevent it. For Noctis, for his future, and for Insomnia. He swears on his name this will never come to pass. No matter how holy the scriptures or how godly their inventor. 

The shrill melody of his phone brings him back to the Citadel. He doesn’t need to see the screen to know who it is.

_ Noctis _

“Specs, come now. You must save me!” Noctis’ noisy call cuts his greeting and sends Ignis’ stomach right to the floor. He frantically reviews in his mind the Prince’s schedule and all the dangers he could face.

“Shit. Are you calling Gladio?” He can overhear a stranger’s voice, light and alarmed, in the background and Ignis blood freezes instantly.

“I will, too!” Noctis taunts muffled

“Don’t. Noct stop being so mean. What kind of friend are you?! He’s going to destroy kitty and then laugh at my face!”

“Good! That monster doesn’t deserve to live!” There is identifiable vindictive glee in Noctis’ voice and Ignis takes a breath before deflating and shaking his head.

He can discern a  _ you’re hurting its feelings! _ in the background too.

Ignis breathes again.

Friendly bickering. His prince was in no grave danger. He ought to stop this paranoia at once. 

Friendly bickering at this time of day can only mean one thing: Prompto Argentum. He’d done a light background check, but if the Prince has enough confidence in him to invite him to his home Ignis will have to be more thorough. Right now, however, is the perfect chance to size up the adolescent and make sure of his intentions. 

“I’m on my way, your Highness,” he informs him, somewhat exasperated now that tension has left. “Please endure whatever monstrosity has been imposed upon you until my arrival.”

Noctis’ answer is a mumble that sounds more like a whine, and Ignis makes the mental note to remind his charge about the appropriate conduct of royalty.  Sending a quick message to Gladio cancelling their meeting together, he walks towards his car.

It means nothing, Ignis rationalizes idly while driving to Noctis’ place. The book was just a religious tale of the founding of Eos. The dust meant it wasn’t reviewed frequently and it made sense. Old religious folktales were not popular or important in the coming and going of Lucis in times of war. There was not a drop of certainty in it, or prophetic goal.

If it was true, the book would not be in the library, he analyzes further, growing more confident in his conclusions. If true, the book had sensitive information pertaining the succession of the Lucian Kings. To have it within relatively easy access would cause an unmanageable scandal.

Now that he remembers, ritualistic sacrifices were the norm in the cosmogony of diverse primitive religions and folklore. There was always a sacrifice figure whether in the form of martyrdom, virginal offerings, or a scape goat. It had permeated to even modern literature where it was romanticized to great success. Or, at least, very much welcomed if Gladiolus’ collection was any sign.

It takes less than five minutes to arrive at the building and another two to reach Noctis’ floor. By this time he’s thoroughly convinced the words mean nothing. He was being paranoid. He has to burn that page when he gets home. There is no need to preserve ridiculous claims.

He doesn’t need to know which of the doors in the hallway is the Prince’s; the muffled bickering is enough of a sign. He’ll have to issue an apology to the ruffled neighbors. 

Unless this was commonplace, in which case not only it had to be official, he would lecture Noctis straight – and his  _ friend _ for good measure. 

The Prince’s flat is unexpectedly clean and organized – or as much as he can manage by himself – and doesn’t have to raise his voice in greeting to hear hasty footsteps coming down his way.

Instead of the disgruntled prince, however, a boy carrying a moving object in his arms greets him with a fast gibberish that might be  _ I swear this is not what it looks like you have to believe me! _ The object moving is a robotic cat. Ignis doesn’t notice.

All he sees is fair hair. Clear hypnotic eyes.

(Ignis can taste the ashes in his mouth.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarus believes Ignis has a thing for Blondes
> 
>  
> 
> Do the Promnis big bang, I said  
> It’s only 20k words, I said  
> /cries in laughter  
> Buckle up; this monster has over 200k at this point.


	3. Cat Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto meets Ignis, and gets the scare of his short life.  
> Feat. The start of the biggest misunderstanding of the century by Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV

 

 

Prompto’s first impression of Ignis is that he was weird. Good looking (at this point he’s sure that’s a prerequisite of nobility), but weird.

Of course, the guy would probably think the same. Prompto had approached him thinking he was Gladio. It even took a moment to figure out that he _wasn’t_ , and then he froze.

Ignis, he remembers belatedly, is the advisor and caretaker of Noctis. _The mom friend_ , Noct has complained several times without any heat, and Prompto knows from enough sitcoms that mom friends are terrifying and can veto.

Ignis is the adviser, too. He can veto Prompto into the next century and he won’t ever be friends with Noct. Not even in his next life or something.

He has to tread _carefully_ and he’s already missed his first chance by mistake. But he can make it better. He can let him know that he means no harm to Noctis, just pure good intentions. Somehow. As long as he _speaks_ before Ignis’ face morphs into something accusatory. Or worse; _disgusted_.

He takes a breath and words die in his mouth with a pitiful sound when he realizes Ignis is about to speak. He stops of course, maybe expecting Prompto to do the first move, but all Prompto really wants to do is beg Ignis to just speak already and get this over with. But the guy doesn’t. So Prompto straightens (Oh gods, did he have his back hunched?! How many points were deducted?!), takes a breath for courage and says with a horribly shy tone:

“This is natural… my hair.” In his arms Kitty moves, and Prompto goes back to wishing earth bury him. Center of Eos, here he comes! What kind of shifty guy says that? Really? _I’m a natural blonde, not a punk. Please don’t suspect me, I’m innocent?!_ That’s textbook shifty behavior.

Astrals in heaven, what is wrong with him? Good job Prompto! Aim for the high score of awkwardness on a crucial first impression.

Why hasn’t Noctis appeared yet? When will he bail him out of this?

“You are Prompto, I presume?” The question is polite, but the stare is unnerving.

“Y- yes! Prompto Argentum,” he squeaks, trying to not duck away. Shit; he didn’t even introduce himself. _Manners are a big deal for specs_ , he remembers Noctis complaining from time to time. Manners are important and Prompto is _failing._ Did he have to bow too?! “You must be Ignis! Noct has talked a great deal about you”   

“… and this is the _monstrosity?_ ” Ignis inquires, almost raising an eyebrow, judging Kitty. Ignis’ poker face is amazing, though. Prompto can’t glean a thing from it.

“Its name is Kitty and Noct is blowing things way over” is his deadpan explanation before recoiling. “I mean…”

Ignis takes a moment, studying his face before looking back at Kitty. “Did you make it yourself?”

Well that’s one safe topic he’s confident about.

“Yes. Noct likes cats, and he was complaining about missing important dates, so kitty here is an electronic reminder.”

“Important dates?” Ignis repeats skeptically, those green eyes judging.

Prompto’s soul leaves his body. Ignis is the advisor right? So he always has the Prince’s schedule… giving him kitty would be like insulting his work, right? “School related,” he clarifies as fast as he can, raising kitty up a bit, hoping its nonexistent cuteness can win Ignis over. “Not his, er... royal duties?”

Right at that moment, Kitty lights up with an electronic Meow followed by an electronic voice. _[Time to wake up and do geography homework]_. The robot moves in his arms and he has to hold Kitty up and tap its left ear to stop the notification.

Ignis demeanor changes when he chances a glance. Instead of rigid and cautious, now he seems more curious. With a hand on his chin and those green eyes that are definitely interested. Prompto smiles sheepishly.

“Was he napping?” he asks, as if that would explain everything.

Which, true. Noctis and sleeping were the true star crossed lovers, and if he slept his duties away the government would fall. At least, that’s what he thinks. Noct would probably make it legal for the King to sleep on the throne during a meeting and only Ignis and Gladio would try to stop him. Ignis give him that kind of impression.

Ignis, who was still expecting an answer.

“Y- yes. But he was awake when we config. I mean configured Kitty”

“Understood,” he says and that seems to be it. He nods as he passes by him and goes into the living room “Your Highness, it is improper to forsake a handmade present.”

“I wasn’t going to!” is the shouted answer, suspiciously fast. When he leans over the door to the living room he sees Noct leaning on the back of the sofa, arms crossed.  He’s avoiding his eyes, and there is a ghost of a smile on his face. Oh this level of pettiness is beyond his friend.

Ignis stays for the evening. _I am already here so please do your geography homework while I prepare supper,_ he says as a matter of explanation while going inside the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. Prompto had tried to no avail to worm his way out of Noct’s flat and the uncomfortable situation that is bound to happen the moment he sits down on the table and Ignis judges his wrong way to use fork and knife or something. (Fork was used on the right hand, and knife on the left, right? Or was it the other way around?)

Plus, Ignis is making them _food_. One thing is to eat potato chips with Noctis or greasy hamburgers he’ll take an extra mile on his daily jogging to burn out; another entirely is eating princely food. Granted, he has stolen some things from Noctis’ bento from time to time (well, Noctis likes to say it’s stolen, but they both know Noctis won’t ever touch the vegetables unless forced to), but this is not the same.

Obviously he fails his attempts at escaping, and after a few jabs with Noct, they are too engrossed by their geography notes to care.

Almost.

He takes a few minutes after finishing homework, forgoing a match with Noct in King’s Tale to ask Ignis if he should set the table already, and does when Ignis approves. He’s determined to help as much as he can.

His reward is the greatest meal of his life. It is a salad, some overly done fish with a garnish, and some form of snowball cookies filled with something sweet. It tastes so good he forgets to be scared of using the wrong utensils. It tastes so good he almost cries. Heck, maybe he did.

Ignis has the hands of cooking astrals or something.

“I certainly do not,” he denies, but there might be a note of pride and pleasure in there. “I am glad you enjoy your meal”

Prompto bites down a snort. This dinner might be a test, and – sincere or not – manners are still important. “Please; only a fool would dislike it!”

“Gladio doesn’t like it much,” Noct quips, masterfully ignoring the salad. Prompto gets the distinct impression Ignis might be planning something evil in retaliation but his face is set in a neutral tone.

Maybe it’s just him. Still, he makes extra sure to eat his salad. Not that it was difficult or anything. It’s just as delicious as the rest of the meal.

“Gladio thinks cup noodles are high cuisine,” Prompto points out once he’s finished. There is nothing wrong with cup noodles, but even he can accept the difference between those two.

Noct gives him a side glance and half of his salad. “Gladio has also eaten _your_ food without wincing.”

“Excuse you. Just because you don’t care about vegetables and appropriate levels of vitamin B and E doesn’t mean my cooking is terrible” he resents that comment. Yeah, what if mixing bell peppers with mandarins, spinach and eggs is weird? It might look ugly, but it’s nutritious.

(Granted he’d never offer that to Noct, but still)

“Vitamin B and E?” Ignis interjects, curious and with a glint in those green eyes Prompto would later know is the prelude to inspiration. Right now however, all he can see is how the advisor is making an effort to keep the conversation, and the opportunity to have a topic they can share.

“They are important for a balanced diet,” he answers naturally, and is followed by a tiny _Prompto no!_ from Noctis that he blithely ignores because Ignis has this face that tells him he’s answered correctly the million credit question.  

(Or maybe it is because he just gave the salad back to his friend)

It doesn’t take much before they go into a long talk about the good nutrients and vitamins; different vegetables and fruits had and how can they mix. Prompto knows a lot about those. He can’t recognize half of the fruits or vegetables Ignis talks about though, and is sure that he could only buy a third of the half he recognizes. He had studied them hard when he was on his road to losing weight.

There are some differences though. Taste is important to Ignis, and by this point Prompto’s taste buds were mostly obsolete. With his budget, he had always prioritized in getting the maximum nutrients out of his meals no matter how bizarre the combination. He still totally understands what Ignis means with the importance of taste the moment he eats his food.

He’s so not going to tell him about that mandarin spinach omelet. However, by the evil stare of Noct, he’s probably going to snitch at the first opportunity for maximum pain.

“Would you be interested someday in teaching a bit? I would love to know more, even if it’s just helping you cut celery,” he requests, because he’s never one to waste opportunities if he can have them.

Ignis regards him for a moment, and then suggests with the ghost of a smile, “If you get his Highness to eat vegetables once a week, I will consider it”

Noctis just quips back to complain that once he _ate a whole tomato, thank you_.

“Doesn’t count much, Noct.”

“Shut it or Kitty gets it” Noctis glowers, but by now Prompto knows he’s joking. Kitty will be safe.

This is perhaps one of the liveliest dinners he’s ever been part of. He didn’t think he would get them without his family, and with a _noble_ he’s barely met. He never really bought the whole ‘holier than thou’ mystique around nobility. He was of the opinion that nobles were people. But he hadn’t really _known_ . Noct was a special case after all, and Gladio was, well, _Gladio._ Ignis seems a proper noble down to the etiquette and composed way he spoke.

Gets to show him how much about the world he still ignores.

“Your eyebrows,” Ignis says out of the blue once Prompto’s finally done cleaning the table. He’s still feeling a little bad that he was denied helping with the kitchen. It feels kinda like he’ taken advantage. He doesn’t want to be a sloth.

“Yeah?” He aims for friendly and confident instead of the wary and panicking. What about his eyebrows? Did he not pluck them enough? Was it some kind of noble code to have perfectly arched eyebrows or something?

“They are blond,” he explains, one hand gesturing at them and elaborates. “People usually don’t bother bleaching them as well. That’s how I knew you were a natural.”

Oh. Was this a token of a truce? Some weird form of _I know you were awkward but I haven’t for a moment thought you were a punk no good friend for my charge_? Prompto smiles, feeling a bit floaty.

At the table, Noctis snorts, and Ignis levels him automatically with a judging stare. One that says _I’ve raised you to act better than this at the table Your Highness._

Prompto bites his lip trying not to laugh.

As if he could read minds, Ignis fixes him with a calculating stare. “The volume of this Kitty can be graduated, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“Tune it higher.”

He’s never seen Noctis stand up so quickly from a nap at the dinner table.

“I heard you, Specs! You didn’t even bother to whisper that!”

Prompto laughs. Ignis might be weird, but he’s alright and maybe, just maybe, he can still be friends with Noct.

  
  


“Noct” Prompto asks a few weeks later, back at his friend’s flat. “Did you amp up the drama about Kitty so that I wouldn’t chicken out of meeting Ignis?”

Said Kitty is now charging in the bedroom, loved and unharmed.

He’s been wondering about it, because it made sense. For all the blabber he did at first, he could at least _talk,_ and by the time the embarrassment wore off he was having too much fun for his anxiety to rear its head until he went home.

It worked too; whatever impression he gave Ignis was good enough for him not to veto their friendship. They had met two more times so far, and it had been pleasant enough. A bit weird, a bit stiff, but pleasant.

Ignis was an OK guy, and maybe he thought Prompto was an Ok guy too. Good enough of a pleb to be friends with the Prince or something.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Noctis mumbles, but Prompto has been his friend for over a year now and he’s aware of his tells. Like how Noct squints his eyes and slows his munching when he tastes the hint of a vegetable in his food, or how he tries not to blink when he’s lying, or how he quickly looks away when he’s embarrassed.

Like now.

Prompto smiles, heart fluttering and warmth spreading in his chest. He has such a great friend. Just for that, he’s not going to trounce his team this one time and won’t surpass all of his high scores in Summon of War.

 

* * *

 

Prompto is good at robotics. It comes with the baggage of being happily adopted by a whole family and neighborhood of Insomnia’s industrial district. Through it, he earned the scholarship to attend the school where he met Noctis, and allows him to give presents with his short supply of spare cash.

That’s not the only thing he’s good at, or that he enjoys. He likes photography. Professional or spontaneous, he loves it. When he sees something beautiful he itches to record it; when Noctis laughs or is in the middle of a crazy idea he takes selfies; when something fun happens he takes a quick shot; when he enters a building so romantic or beautifully decorated he is worse than a tourist trying to get every detailed shot.

It brings him joy, though it always comes with the uncertainty of what he’ll find through the viewfinder. It started when he was still a kid. One day he was taking pictures, and the next daylight started to dance through his lense. He’d thought at first it was a problem with the camera and had cleaned it accordingly.

He was disillusioned, but didn’t waste the film. He took pictures of everything he found pretty. Of flowers, gardens, and the more interesting buildings in the district – and with each picture taken, he’d grown weary and wearier. Wherever he looked through the lense there was a speck of light dancing around the corner.

He had revealed the film carefully, and had been disappointed when the dancing light remained. Some even took the shape of fuzzy flowers. He had brought them to his parents, ready to complain… but they had found nothing wrong with the pictures.

He’d thought at first they were just being candid. That’s what parents did with their children to encourage them, right? But asking around the neighborhood brought the same result.

Prompto had never paid much attention to the fact that he was a Niflheim refugee aside from the passing comments about his blond hair and blue eyes or the barcode on his wrist that his parents always insisted he covers. Until that moment.

His parents couldn’t see them. No one in the neighborhood could. Father had looked sad, and a few years later, when he’d broken his arm and it had healed under a week, he understood. His parents sat down with him and explained to the best of their abilities what the barcode on his wrist meant.

The dancing light, the curious flowers in statues and streets, the way the walls on some building turned to luminous fractals and the lines that brightened at night all probably had a root on whatever the Empire did with the children it rounded up and sent to the MT labs.

“We love you,” his father had said, while his mother hugged him and wiped away his frightened tears. “You are our son no matter what the barcode on your wrist says. But you need to keep this hidden, no one must know”

“For your own good, Prom,” mother had whispered to the crown of his head. “Everyone has unusual quirks, but you know how citizens here usually are with foreigners. Don’t let yourself be vulnerable with this.”

Prompto had taken their words to heart. What were a few quirks here and there? He was human. He was rescued before the Empire could do real harm.

So Prompto will not let his birth sour something he likes and keeps taking pictures. To have an ongoing reminder of his existence – and of Noctis’ journey to happiness and friendship. He’s learned to let the flowers and unusual things slide. It’s only through the viewfinder that he sees them, there is no need to even bother.  

He still had drawn a few of the flowers – in secret to not upset his parents. Had tried to go to the national library once, but the lady at the counter had been scary. He had more luck in the library of agriculture where nice ladies guided him to the sections concerning flowers and several kinds of flora.

He poured hours upon hours into it whenever he visited. Has learned the shape, and through some orientation that it belonged somewhere down the Asteraceae family. Yet none of the recorded flowers matched. None had over one hundred petals and over thirty pistils.

Throughout the years, the flowers grew more defined, and the fractals he glimpsed meshing on the walls became more complex. He’s learned to not overtly pay attention to them. Whatever he sees is for his eyes only – even if he can’t shake the feeling there is more to what he sees.

It is worrying, but a fact of life.

He hasn’t deleted a single one. It is his guilty pleasure, looking through them and wondering what it all could mean. What those flowers are. He’s currently engrossed in the collection, waiting for Noctis to change clothes so they can hit the arcade, unheeding of the world and until it crashes down on him.

“Curious composition.”

Ignis’ voice startles him so bad that he barely stays in the couch. Noct was right, Ignis is a ninja who uses his ninja powers for evil and Prompto has been too trusting.

“What do you mean?” he yelps, then winces at the very unmanly tone.

Ignis blinks, confused, and makes a gesture. Prompto hesitates for a moment, but relents and gives him his camera. Ignis passes through the collection until he finds the picture he was looking for and shows him.

“This photo,” he begins. It’s the one he took of Queen Asteria, the Defender. The statue littered with flowers from head to toe, a glowing bride with her dearest husband, the claymore she expertly handled with one hand. “The flowers must have taken a lot of time to execute, but each look identical enough. You should be proud. It is beautifully composed, though rumors insist Her Majesty’s favorite flower was chrysanthemums.”

Prompto freezes. This has to be a joke.

“You can see them?” he asks quietly, standing from the couch and watching anything Ignis does. Anything he can find to know that he is lying.

“Yes” he eventually answers, uncertain but sincere. He’s probably realized he saw something that shouldn’t be there.

Ignis looks faint, and maybe that should be the first clue, but right now Prompto is going overdrive. He even hears his blood rushing through his body. He’s hot and cold at the same time. Two realizations hit him like a train.

First, Ignis can see them. Ignis, who is not an MT, former or otherwise. Ignis wrists are clean – and Ignis can see them.

Second, there really _are_ flowers around Insomnia, and only few people can see them. They are real, the flowers, the fractals, the lines. He’s not crazy. They are _real_.

“Noctis can’t,” he whispers, trying to take back his camera but Ignis hold is firm and their fingers end up brushing. Prompto lets them go, startled. More from fact that Ignis’ hands are unusually warm. Prompto has cold skin, and people complain when they accidentally touch him in the metro, but Ignis didn’t seem to notice.

“Is that so?” he asks carefully instead, those green eyes looking through him, assessing and cautious.

Prompto is rooted to the spot, suddenly scared. Ignis is going to be a public figure one day – if he isn’t already one – if someone knew of this particular trait it could give him trouble. Unlike Prompto, who can wave it off as “ _artist’s eye,”_ or “ _weird stress sequels of an adopted war refugee_ ,” Ignis doesn’t have these kinds of excuses.

Maybe he accidentally uncovered a secret he shouldn’t. Maybe more people can see them but don’t talk about it.

A heartbeat later Ignis gives the camera back, leaning forward. Prompto is starting to regret going around the couch. It could have been a barrier between them. Without it, he has the impression the space between them has grown curiously intimate for two people that barely knew of each other a month or so ago.

They are not touching, but Ignis is close enough that Prompto can smell his cologne: something spicy, flowery, and undeniably expensive

"Insomnia has different stories within her walls. Maybe we can see them because we are meant to find one," he says eventually, voice smooth and engaging.

Prompto’s heart beats so fast he’s afraid everyone in this floor might hear it. With just those words the weight and trepidation that reared every time he used his camera dissolved into nothing, leaving him light and afraid he might float away.

There is a balm and relief in those words.

These flowers and fractals are not a degradation of whatever was on his wrist; other people had them too. This wasn’t a curse from the Astrals for being born in an Empire that ravaged Eos and rounded up innocent children for unspeakable experiments. There were people who had them as well.

People like Ignis who is amazing and certainly not an MT.

People like Ignis who think this might mean something good can come out of it.

People like Ignis who are actually offering to uncover it together.

Because they are meant to find it together. What other reason could there be for being able to see them?

His chest feels tight and light at the same time, his fingers tingle, and his lips hurt from smiling, big and honest. It’s the first time Prompto feels he can be part of something greater, and for good.  

  


(Noctis goes back to his room and quietly closes the door.

Holy fuck.

Did he just see specs flirt with Prompto?!

Now that he remembers it, Ignis did have a fancy for blondes a few years back. It had been Glaive Eda, if he wasn’t mistaken, and he hadn’t seen Ignis be so bothered and terrible at dissimulating it ever since.

Noctis had thought it was a _phase_!

He replays the words in his head, the suave tone _damn but Ignis has the moves. Why wasn’t he taught me that yet?!_

He gets up. Prompto has no experience parrying those kinds of attacks. Girls he can handle just fine by dissolving into a fluffy mass of blush and shyness and floundering. Some girls dig that; many don’t and just find it adorable but no potential boyfriend material. Good for Noctis, anyway. He’s not partial to share his friendship time. At least not yet.

Boys, however?

There was that time in a video game festival where Noctis heard guys gushing about how cute the blonde guy with the camera was – and Prompto believed they were just being _friendly_!

When he gets out of his room, however, Ignis is going through the pictures with Prompto doing an editor’s commentary about Noctis journey on finding the perfect bait.

It wasn’t that long. Just three days. He says as much, and that only earns a question from Ignis on why he hasn’t taken Prompto to fish with him yet.

“I swear the fish would love me, Noct!” Prompto adds with a wink.

The traitor. See if he’ll lift a finger when Ignis finally pounces.)

  



	4. Baffled chime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or Prompto flails his way into Ignis’ friendship and trust while unaware.

 

In the several encounters Ignis has had so far with Prompto, it has become clear the blond doesn’t recognize him. At first he’d thought the blond was being cautious, trying to conceal his shock of finding the person that burns him in his nightmares. However, he has no doubt that Prompto has no idea who he is, or the dreams.  

He would lie if he said he wasn’t a tad bit bitter, knowing he was the only one to suffer the nightmares.

He still had his qualms about the prophecy. Had thought perhaps it is just an old folktale. Prompto hadn’t recognized him during their first meeting. Unless of course, he isn’t the one he burns with in his nightmares, and he was pushing undue animosity.

He’d thought then, it was just paranoia. But paranoia can’t fake what he sees on Prompto’s pictures. It is too much of a coincidence, to have found him right after he read the prophecy; that he is a true friend with the prince; that he also has visions of something that shouldn’t be there.

Ignis isn’t a fool to ignore the obvious signs. Prompto had latched at the opportunity to do something with his weirdness immediately and without questioning. He’s seen that look before, had trained it out of himself at nine with the help of his uncle.  

It was fair, he supposes. It would be too convenient for both of them to have visions of the future, if they want to change Noctis prophesized fate –and this is what everything ought to be about. So Ignis has the nightmares, and Prompto had the fear of being crazy because nobody could see what he saw every day.

What Prompto sees though, it is curious and somber: unknown flowers in the middle of the road, sprouting and blooming from monuments and statues of the former Kings and Queens of Lucis; the fractals on walls of some buildings and roads in Insomnia. They have researched books about flowers trying to find which are they, with Prompto even pointing out the books he had read before. None match.

Ignis can’t know the scope of it. As they found out on their first encounter; he can only see the flowers through the pictures Prompto takes. The blond has evaded every question about if he can see them outside his lenses with a mastery that is suspicious.

He can understand it though. At least his nightmares come when he sleeps. It would be exhausting having to hide it at all times for as long as he’s alive to _see_.

It takes skill to hide it too, something he hadn’t thought the blond was capable of. A dangerous asset that begets the question of whether there is more Prompto is hiding, but also useful in their goal –the one Ignis will skillfully herd him towards.

Noctis will not die on his throne. Not if Ignis can help it.

There is some levity in their meetings too, at least for now. Not all the pictures Prompto takes are of precise use. Going through Prompto’s camera is going through a journey and adventure of the day.

He’s not keeping a documentary for Ignis. That he can learn a bit of Noctis casual life is only a byproduct. Prompto’s camera and his pictures are an extension of him.

He has learned a few things about Noctis life outside his duties as the prince and the Citadel –not many, for even if most of his deeds are documented in pictures, Prompto remains a steadfast friend and will divert any question that he deems invasive to his friend’s life.

What he knows now is that Noctis likes to do voluntary work in several animal shelters in the city, and he had apparently done the revision in the laws about fish markets because the bad treatment of betta fish for sale. _They were handling them in these tiny round aquariums with a clear bag as a cover without having their water changed. They were dying! Some didn’t even have aquariums, just plastic cups!_

Ignis had been there helping his Prince in the curious goal of learning about the legislation and normative of handling fishes and mascots. He had been elated to know his Prince was keen in learning more of the handlings of Insomnia and Lucis for however small a goal, but had never paid much attention on the cause.

Ignis had helped him bring forth the case, and now that he thinks of it, Prompto must have supplied the photo and video evidence.  

“I help sometimes, but I have a part time job you see. Not that It matters Noct practically loves the kitties more than anyone.”

“Except Kitty” he points out more out of humor than a need to correct. Kitty being the robot cat aptly described by Noctis as _ugly cute specs, I can’t stay angry at it, Prompto is evil_. He’d agreed, Kitty is rather on the unfair side compared to other sleek robots, but the movement of its tale showed promise –and the meow was starting to grow on him.

He’d still said no when Prompto had wondered if Ignis wanted one.

“Nah, they finally warmed to each other,” Prompto says stretching his arms and leaning comfortably back on the sofa.

Ignis counts it as a victory. Finally, the blond seems more relaxed in his home’s sitting room. The first time he’d arrived, Prompto hadn’t been able to make more than three steps before asking if it was fine and _I swear I won’t touch anything at all! You don’t have to worry!_ Or the other curious observation of _This place is quite romantic –no wait! Don’t think anything weird._

He’d teased him mercilessly of course, in an honest attempt to distract him from his surroundings and lessen his intimidation. He swears. On no one. 

Prompto had still done the usual complaint of _I can’t believe your water taps are hand painted porcelains! I only thought those were fantastic details in Gladio’s books!_ At this point he knows it is the blonde’s personal ritual to gather confidence.

Ignis is not careless enough to discuss matters this sensitive in public, thus even when the invitation to his home was in goodwill; he had another purpose with his invitation. Prompto seemed to understand as well, being more forthcoming with his observations in a private place away from prying eyes –though he made a good compelling point about how Ignis schedule was busy and it was easier for them to rendezvous at wherever the advisor found more efficient.

The pictures this afternoon come with a recollection of a trip: Kenny the Crows metro challenge.

Apparently by buying a special double ticket at Roserade station you received a puzzle and a map filled with riddles you were supposed to solve under 24 hours in order to earn a prize.

“I was was a greasy super special Kenny’s secret recipe burger, with fries and two large milkshakes,” Prompto has explained. “Didn’t taste all that amazing, but the milkshakes were a killer.”

The Photos are a vibrant collection of Noctis wearing a cap and eyeshades, and Prompto doing the silly challenges including one where Prompto is posing with a mascot of Kenny the crow –twelve in fact, each one with a different mascot. Some very interesting shots of Noctis looking at the Insomnian greater subway map ( _we were absolutely lost by the way, Noct can’t identify the subway lines for anything. It was by pure chance we actually got to Victini the station in time_ ). A video of Noctis laughing while mimicking the Moogle dance ( _an extra bonus points, but Noct really wanted the Moogle dance –it was either that or the chocobo dance but I lost at rock paper scissors_ ); and at least thirteen selfies during the challenge and eating their prize.

There are also interesting shots of several Statues or monuments of the King Protectors of the Realm, and three buildings with walls tapered with fractals. These they can work with.

(He still slyly saves two pictures on his phone. Prompto either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.) 

He’s passing through the pictures until he finds one of a Statue of a King Protectors with flowers and Prompto waves for him to stop.

“This one is King Iudices, the Just. I remember it because I had taken a photo of him before at night” Prompto takes out his phone and taps something before accessing his web storage. It takes a few minutes loading but when it does, Ignis sees a picture of the same King, taken from the right side. The size is different, and looking them side by side he can pinpoint which has greater quality.

Prompto seems to read his mind and just nods before continuing, “It is still not conclusive because the angle is different as is the quality, but if you zoom it; the flowers here in the afternoon are smaller than how they are at night.” And he proceeds to do so on both.

“It might be something else entirely too. I took this picture of Iudices almost four years ago, maybe instead of it being larger at night the flower is simply growing smaller? I’ll have to get one more shot and see.” That last part seems more like a personal musing than a proper commentary. Yet Ignis hasn’t even opened his mouth when Prompto continues, “And Also! We might need a Map of Insomnia at some point? If the flowers grow smaller or bigger, then maybe, I should have pictures of most of the Kings statues or something, to see if there is any change from location to location –or if they all have flowers in them.”

By this point Prompto has started gesturing at the pictures again for emphasis, eyes glinting with new ideas and pictures to take.  

“I think I also have some pictures of the Kings Protectors I took when I was a kid. They are analogue, so at the very least we can use them for easier reference if we end up using them. It could also help as a cross reference and…” Prompto stops, deflating a little “sorry. I went overboard again didn’t I?”

Another thing he’s learned is that Prompto is passionate. Whenever topic of his predilection is touched upon, he starts with long and enthusiastic tirades about them, or his comments on them, spiced with trivia or curious anecdotes. His moves his hands like a master to the orchestra of his words and thoughts, his eyes light with enthusiasm and fervor, and he speaks fluidly with a passion and love that could inspire orators –and yet he is unaware of it.

“No. I’ve told you. You’re passionate, and the discovery is a product of passionate questions and their desire for answers.” He allays. “It is important to air all ideas for brainstorming.”

That earns him a shy nod, and his whole face conveys happiness and relief.

Prompto is very expressive and open when caught off guard with sincere compliments. That too is something Ignis has learned so far. Noctis is lucky to have such a candid and loyal friend.

One that is easy to read.

“We’ll work on the structure. You could always use that skill for compelling arguments,” he adds, it will be a useful skill if Prompto remains Noctis friend, not that he ever doubts it at this point. “In the meantime, it seems prudent to have a map of Insomnia. Which other way would we be able to uncover one of her stories?”

“True. So as I was saying, there was this other King I…”

The discussion continues, and Ignis takes his time reciting a few passages of each King Protector that they find afterwards. There are some buildings too, and Ignis makes the mental not to check the architectural plans of those districts of Insomnia. He is still unsure what connection the flowers and fractals could have with stopping Noctis’ fate but eventually they will find one.

He’s certain.

Their meeting is cut short when Prompto’s phone beeps an alarm. He’s about to ask if he had plans with Noctis, ready to tell him the Prince would be occupied the whole day with his royal duties when Prompto stands up and tuck his phone in a pocket. 

“Gotta go now Ignis. My shift starts soon!” he says, taking the camera back and putting it back on his travel case.

Oh.

“About that, you are sixteen. Insomnia prohibits you working.” Ignis cuts mildly. He’s been meaning to breach this topic since he learned about Prompto’s activities without Noctis. Prompto isn’t malicious, but a breaking of the law is a breaking of the law.

“… unless it is for apprenticeship, with the approval of my parents.” Prompto quips with sly comradery as he leans closer, as if sharing a secret.

Perhaps he is. Working underage is _illegal_ in Insomnia but apprenticeship is a clause to allow nobles to start their training in the Citadel at a young age. It never explicitly said it was only at the Citadel or for nobles only, but that had been the aim behind the clause. Then again, Prompto isn’t exactly working… and Ignis has done his own tweaking of the law now and then to avoid or lessen situations.

“It forbids payment” Ignis points out, trying to curb the amusement and pride in his voice.

“To _me_.” Is the blasé answer and Ignis knows when someone got an upper hand. He will have to revise the laws, just to make sure Prompto in his research didn’t forget a detail.

The blond smiles and bids goodbye with a “Let me prepare you a coffee sometime!” Ignis eyes follow him out of his home, to the next street until he turns to the next block.

Those are enough clues to find out where he works. Ignis frowns lightly, _if_ he wants to find out.

Prompto Argentum is a passionate and resourceful young man. He has a good heart too; bright and warm.

He wonders though, if it’s strong enough to challenge fates. So far he has found in Prompto dedication and joy bundled in genuine charisma –but he can’t discern his will from the hints of steel. It’s better not to risk it for now.

He’s a good influence to Noctis too. Aside from unnecessary mayhem. Ignis doesn’t want to burden their relationship with the prophecy. 

 

* * *

 

That night, Ignis dreams with Blazes and Ashes again.

 

* * *

 

_The earth shakes beneath his feet; there is agony and purpose with each step. Above him, the sky is littered with stars and yet Ignis knows they shouldn’t be there. He still isn’t sure why, hasn’t been able to find it, but the trepidation and despair that washes over him every single time his eyes focus on the starry sky is unbearable._

_Night sky here means something between failure and horror._

_The person in his arms is still there, light, ruined with illness, and held so tight against him that he has to focus to know where they begin and end._

_Tonight however, he can see more. The pale hair (and it should be blond, it should be gold!) obscures part of their face, but in so it brings focus to the side that’s still healthy._

_It’s a decidedly pretty profile._

_An expressive clear blue violet eye, with an elegant slant of eyelids and framed by long blonde eyelashes. The skin is still pale and darkened by malaise, but now he can see the splash of several freckles on cheeks and the bridge of the nose._

_Those are achingly familiar. He wheezes and his blood runs cold when he realizes why._

_Those are Prompto’s._

_As if that thought was the key, the nightmare changes and gains a clearer focus, and a new sense of wrongness overlaps with the horror._

_The hand that caresses his cheek still burns him through, but now Ignis can see that the veins on Prompto’s right arm shine black and purple ill, starting right on his wrist where the skin is black and purplish all around, slowly covering what is left of his right hand and whatever pale healthy skin is on his arm._

No.

_Prompto’s face is battered, not by hits but by whatever the substance in his veins is. One eye is already blackened, sclera growing violet by the minute, though his eye remains blue for now. He’s in pain but there are no tearstains, either because it hurts more to produce them or because he’s unable to cry._

_Their eyes connect, and the insanity of the world breaking around them mutes. Prompto closes his eyes, and in doing so his infected eye starts darkening its eyelashes. When Prompto opens them again, Ignis is greeted with a grim and determined stare._

_Yet Ignis is holding him so tight he can feel the uneven work of Prompto’s heart, and knows deep down that_ Prompto’s lungs are failing too.

No!

_The blond coughs black goo and Ignis tries not to scream in some heavy angry and scalding mix of terror and rage. He fails, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but his throat feels raw, his eyes burn and blur. In his arms, Prompto shakes before looking back._

_Ignis knows this part._

_He still can’t read his lips, can’t hear the words he says. He wants to shake Prompto, make him repeat himself. He leans near, trying to hear what he’s said, but the touch burns him, makes his skin melt and the pain returns with a dose of anguish and pierces his liver and choke the air out of his lungs._

_He spits black goo and ashes._

No. Not yet, please.

_In his arms, Prompto’s gaze is solemn, though there is an apologetic tilt in his lips. It isn’t fair, they should always be ready for a sunny smile, not a twist of pain and unsaid apologies. They shouldn’t spew black malaise._

_Ignis body weakens even more as he falls to the ground. His vision shakes, and dust rises around them. It is harder to breathe, but at this point he isn’t sure if it because of the dust, the ashes or the viscous knot festering in his lungs._

_There is no more time. It must be done._

I’m sorry _he wants to say, but no words come out._

_He breathes in and fire burns inside him, cinders his veins. Prompto tightens his hold, waiting and ready._

_He breathes out and blazes consume everything, eat away his flesh and bone, and the last thing he sees is Prompto’s face alight with fire and brimstone._

 

* * *

 

Ignis gasps and jerks awake. His heart is pounding, his chest feels tight and constricting and he can’t breathe. Can’t do more than short gasps. Around him his room shakes, and it takes a terrible moment to remember the blurring in it is because of his bad eyesight and not heat haze.

He’d suspected it was Prompto from the very first day they met. Yet, to actually–

Ignis breathes in, but chokes instead. A drop of sweat slides down his brow, and he tries to carefully wipe it away with a shaky hand, lest he accidentally hurt his eyes.

He’s shivering; he can feel the tremors down his legs even under the heavy cover. The shirt he’s wearing is damp with sweat, clinging to his body, constricting like a vice. He should take a moment to breathe, see what time is it, and take a cold shower. He can start as long as he just breathes.

There are no arms to hold him, he’s beyond that age. He’s alone in his room. He can’t bother his uncle. It’s just him, and it’s fine. He’s gone through this, this is just a new unwelcome detail, but _he should have known it was coming_.

As long as he breathes–

Just breathe–

He breathes through his mouth, clumsy and with a rattling sound. He tries again and again until he can breathe through his nose.    

He bends his knees under the cover, placing both hands on them, trying to smooth out the trembles. He’s fine, he’s unhurt, the flames eating his flesh, burning him through it’s just an illusion.

Step one done. Now, he should look at the time.

It is an effort to hold his phone, to lean over to the bed side table and draw it out. Yet he does it, and carefully unlock his screen, but he doesn’t look at the time. Instead he dials a number.

It takes a moment to realize what he did, and another too long to have enough control over his fingers to hang up. But the person answers the phone with a yawn before he can.

“Whosit?”

“Prompto” he breathes, somewhere between horrified and relieved with whom he called. His head hurts, his heart feels heavy, and yet it’s now easier to breathe.

“Ignis? Whoa” he can hear the creak of his bed, can imagine the blond going up. Part of him is apologetic, Prompto is still growing, sleep is important – most of him however is relieved to hear his voice. “I’m so not going to look at the hour. What’s up?”

Ignis just breathes, slow and deep until his hands stop trembling.

“Ignis?” Promoto’s voice rouses him out of his light meditation.

“My apologies Prompto.” He begins and for the first time in years he knows not what to say. He knows what he _wants_ to say, but it is irrational and suspicious –it would only bother the blond more than what he already is and arise uncomfortable questions.   

_I’m glad you are still alive and not burning yet._

The nightmare changed, or shifted into something clearer tonight. To Prompto ill and ruined. It’s not the same looking at a nebulous face and clear eyes, and recognizing which face it is.

It’s not the same to have nightmares than to fear he’ll overlap Prompto’s face with the horror in his dreams while awake.

Ignis isn’t sure how much time has passed, but by now the trembling should have stopped. He’s used to do these things alone. He knows how to handle them, the tension, the disorientation, the taste of ashes in his mouth. He has practiced and has experience in calming down through the few minutes after a nightmare. There is a reason he’s never approached someone aside from his Grandfather or is Uncle.

Prompto humms at the other end and Ignis can’t discern anything from the tone, can’t imagine what face he’s making. A pout is surely there, and his voice usually conveys an emotion all on its own, but the blond is most expressive with his eyes. So blue and healthy, _devoid of the infection that turned them black and_ –

“Well! That’s just as good I suppose. I got some news for you!” the cheery tone swerves his thought back to the present and his meticulously organized room. The curtains are drawn; he should open them a bit and so stands up.

“Noct is going to be super prissy tomorrow, so heads up!” Prompto continues over the line.

“Over Kitty again?” he asks and is relieved to hear his voice steady.

“Psssh no! I just beat all his high scores in his shooting games. So he either hasn’t noticed and will be prissy when he does; _or_ is playing them right now and even if he beats them all will have no sleep so prissy either way”

From what he’s learned in these few months, these swapping high scores in games are a common occurrence between the two. A form of friendly competitiveness, Prompto is excellent in shooter games while Noctis is a master in hack and slash. Together, they both are terrifyingly good at strategy, though most of their schemes often fall over the line of harebrained than meticulous. He can find the appeal of that, sometimes for more creative solutions one must think outside the box.

Ignis snorts lightly, “you are making my work difficult today Prompto.”

“Is it _today_ already?” Prompto groans and Ignis hears another creak. Prompto has flopped down on his bed again. “Dude, first rule of calling at unnamed hours –never tell what hour it is!”

“Is there such kind of etiquette?” Ignis enquires following the game.

“If not there should be. _The comprehensive guide for witching hour calls By Prompto Argentum_ buy yours or something.”

Ignis scoffs at that. “No need when I can go straight to the source.”

“True. Maybe I should demand commissions, or is it royalties? Hmmm”

“Commissions are when you are paid for your aid in a transaction. Royalties on the other hand are when you are paid for the license to use that asset” he explains looking through the window; the moon is still outside but no stars shine in the sky “In your case it would be consultation fees. Not that it matters when I’m helping you with our picture case”

“You said it! _Ours_ you can’t take credit for a team effort!” Prompto complains jovially, and Ignis hears another creak of his bed.

A bed shouldn’t creak so much unless it hasn’t been properly maintained. Though he knows the blond loves maintaining the stuff he creates. Is Prompto’s bed old then? That would be a concern; it could have termites for one thing. No, the fad on teenagers was of beds with steel or aluminum supports. Termites can’t live in those.

“Oh and talking about our team effort. I finally found the box with the pictures I took with the analogue camera. We should give them an eye. I can see the flowers in them too,” Prompto continues animatedly.  “Though I warn you, I revealed them myself so some are not in great quality. I still haven’t found the film negatives, which would be extra helpful, but we can make do with them for now right?”

“Indeed.” He agrees, shelving the idea of beds for Prompto for a future revision. Something has caught his attention, both for knowledge and to distance himself from the ghost of ashes in his mouth. “You revealed them yourself?”

That earns him a good eight minutes of Prompto passionately explaining the revealing process and the chemicals used. How he made a black room but had a few incidents where his mother had opened the door by accident; or that other time where the sun had eaten away the black paper he was using to line up the windows and he had to tape a dark curtain over it.

“I could have waited some months to change the entire carton, but I couldn’t wait to reveal them. They were excellent shots. You’ll see them!”

“I am sure I will.” He confirms before the pause becomes too long “Did they have more flowers?”

“Yes and some lines too!”

“Lines?” Ignis frowns intrigued by the new tidbit of information.

“Yeah. Sometimes through the lenses I can see lines too. Didn’t think about it before because maybe it was my camera? But they totally are there”

“Curious” he comments, mind reeling on what lines could mean. Stems maybe? Flowers needed stems, or maybe a connection from one place of flowers to the other. He’ll store it away for later consideration.

Right now his headache has subsided from splitting to humming. That is good enough.

“We’ll see what it could mean. In the meanwhile, it is still early, perhaps you should go back to sleep” he suggest on the phone while closing the curtains.

“Yeah. That’s a good idea. You’re a genius” he doesn’t need to see Prompto to know he’s nodding.

“Even if I don’t know the, ah, _witching hour etiquette_?”

“Well nobody can be perfect.”

There is a comfortable lull in their conversation. A good point to exchange goodbyes and Ignis is about to do that when Prompto interrupts again.

“Can I… no wait the correct form is may I…?” Prompto’s voice is dubitative, and Ignis suddenly remembers the exact same tone during their first meeting when he talked about his hair.

The line is quiet, but if he strains his ears a little bit he can hear little sounds of fidgeting. Ignis scowls, suddenly inappropriately disconcerted. That simply won’t do.

“Prompto.” He calls with as much tact as possible.

“Yes Ignis!” is the half shouted reply, and then Prompto pauses and adds with a normal tone “Can –May I call you again in the morning? O –or just a text. I just thought this was kinda nice? So maybe you would like a good morning call as well…”

Ignis isn’t listening anymore. There is warmth spreading from his chest to his fingertips. When he next breathes, it fills his lungs slow and rewarding. His face feels warm and he turns away from the window, as if the moon could see his embarrassment and taunt him.

He had never cared for the term _kind soul_ , he had heard it enough times before, flicked around here and there –sometimes even referring to him. Now he understood.

“I –I mean!” is the frantic new addition and in his mind’s eye Ignis can see Prompto’s flustered face; the slight line of his lips and how he will lightly bit them; the widening of those eyes, before blinking and looking away. The flail of those hands. Prompto has always been expressive, able to convey movement with just his voice.

“If it’s not too much of a bother? I know this was more business oriented and you’re super busy…”

“…I would like that.” Ignis cuts finally. He knows Prompto would continue to fill his embarrassment with chatter trying to apologize and rationalize what he did wrong. There was no need for apologies, there had been no transgression. Unless the levity in his chest was one, “thank you.” He adds candidly.

“Oh hey no problem!” is the cheery reply, and Ignis can pinpoint the disbelieving spot in it “Thank you very much. Have a nice day!”

“You as well.” As quick glance at the clock lets him know it is time to finally start his duties “My apologies but I must go.”

“No prob –problem Ignis!” is the warm reply. One of these days, he will have to tell the blond there was no need to always speak clearly. They were around the same age, it was frivolous to think Ignis ignored all common jargon “Hope it goes well!”

Prompto hangs up. It takes a moment to notice, but he’s smiling.

It is quickly wiped away by the taste of ashes. He should tell him, Ignis decides. Maybe not the burning yet. But the deals about the fate of the King, those he must reveal soon.

 

 

(Back in his room, Prompto rolls on his bed one side to the other, feet kicking, until he falls and continues to berate himself. _No problem thank you? Hope it goes well?_ Good job Prompto really, why are you making all of this awkward?!

But Ignis had said yes, so there was that at the very least. Ignis came and talked to him, he did that first, so that must be a sign of closeness right? At the very least now on a firmer friendship level.

His third friend…

He falls back into the covers looking at his phone. It felt good, being able to help Ignis. His voice was strained when he called, Prompto can’t begin to imagine what must have happened, but by the end of the call there was a bit of levity in it. Something work related? Or personal related? Not that he would ever pry, that’s Ignis thing to decide, and he’s fine either way. Sometimes you just needed a bit of companionship and chatter, wouldn’t Prompto know about it himself?

He should find other ways to help him. The guy was way too busy, and this story discovery journey only brought more into the fray.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All train stations have Pokemon names.  
> There is one named "Muk". Ironically, it's the cleanest in all of Insomnia.


	5. Rhythm Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in Ignis' life, and a morning in Prompto's

 

While Ignis loved navigating through the many unspoken networks in the Citadel –it was his job already anyway, what with handling Noctis at his most reckless and keeping up with the tutors he had before- there are certain aspects of the whole affair that annoy him.

Mainly, the crowding or touching. The Citadel is ample in corridors and high in ceilings and yet Nobles and the like loved to clutter and stroll in tight packs. For denoting proximity, maybe, for procuring some form of intimidation –of course. Like now.

“Oh but if it isn’t Scientia!” a woman exclaims placidly followed by the sound of heels. Ignis takes one short breath of preparation. He knows this particular voice.

“Good afternoon Lord Leuem, Lady Leuem.” He greets with a studious bow, and doesn’t flinch or budges an inch when Lady Leuem, who’s flanked by her trophy husband and four more nobles, touches his shoulder meaningfully.

“Ethro be gracious, you have grown into such a stunning man” She flatters, her hand tightening for a moment and then impeccably releases her hold. “A shame the council has missed it so!”

“My apologies, my primary service is with the Crown,” he answers noncommittally, counting down the hundred twenty seconds that are appropriately polite before taking out his schedule notebook and make up an excuse.

Hundred-twenty

He plainly hated to be touched. More than any unsolicited and rude connotation of ownership or closeness people wanted of him, he detested what it left behind. The skin contact, even through the clothes, was too warm for his tastes, and always left him with a patch of uncomfortable humidity, as if he was about to sweat. He learned to tolerate it; of course, weaknesses in his position were asking to be exploited.  

It was part of whatever unique quirk he had the brought forth the nightmares: his skin was hot to the touch ( _warm and safe,_ Noctis had said before when he was still a child) and his temperature higher than average. It hadn’t been a problem, Clarus Amicitia had concluded when he was accepted into the Kingsguard training and was unsurprised when he was found out with fire as his magic core.

He had found good uses for it, of course. Warm hands made for excellent tools in the kitchen and for pastries. Warm hands meant he could soothe Noctis better after a night terror.

“Of course of course!” Lord Leuem agrees, though his dark eyes are insincere. “Your diligence to the service is an inspiration for us all Lucians.”

_Ninety-seven_

“It humbles me to learn it is so,” he complies with another bow and simply ignores the obvious purpose of the couple.

Ignis has dealt with these people since he was a kid. Had to stomach polite and empty touches of condolences after his parent’s passing, and had to turn deaf ears or feign ignorance when his peers commended on his destitution from being a Lucian noble to a lost Tenebraen one.

That had not been the intention of King Regis, he’s sure, but the message was understood wrongly. Noctis hadn’t cared.  _You’re a Crown citizen and a good friend Ignis,_  he’s said after he’d learned why he was now called Scientia only _, but if it bothers you, then I’ll call you specs, and you can call me Noct_. Sometimes he wonders if more parts of his family’s history will be erased at the well intentioned whim of the next King.

They keep talking and Ignis feigns enough interest to be polite.

_Fifty-three_

His humor is particularly thin today, even if Prompto’s pictures of a bird that’s making a nest near his window this morning had been a welcome reprieve. The taste of ashes hadn’t disappeared for a week, and he was decidedly tired of watching Prompto die in his nightmare even if he never attained the same degree of detail as that morning two weeks ago.

The details he got were enough however. It was easier to identify signs he hadn’t wanted to see before, like how Prompto always kept his right wrist covered under an ample and well worn wristband. Right in the place he knew the illness that would ruin Prompto originated.

Like how he seemed to brush off injuries of moderate concern, and didn’t even register small papercuts. How a considerable bruise on his forearm had scabbed and fallen to leave healthy skin in the span of two days.

Like how the color of his eyes truly flickered from blue to violet for no apparent reason. It was no trick of light, he’s caught glimpses of the changes now and then.

Adding to that was the fact of the recent algid discussion between taxes for transportation of produce inside Insomnia was going nowhere.

The matter was simply ludicrous and inefficient. Should the Council somehow approve of such blunder, it would force people to leave the walls and try his luck outside the crown city to feed themselves. Not to mention, it would kill the northernmost business and fisheries.

It was crippling, it was disgusting and vocal nobles seemed to love it. He couldn’t put his feet down in the council; he was prohibited to do so as the Prince’s chamberlain.

He would become a voting member of the council when he turns into a legal adult and Noctis is crowned King.

These people were not making his afternoon any better.

“I saw you accompany the Prince to address the council last time” Lord Leuem says, a mocking tone tucked slightly below his words. “It brought me back to old times. The subject however was rather peculiar”

_One_

“His Royal Highness has a profound interest in the wildlife and treatment of the species of Lucis” Ignis demurs, ignoring the terrible itch on his shoulder. He’s  _sweating._ That’s inadmissible, and takes out his notebook planner “My apologies, but I must go. The service of the crown runs on tight schedule.”

And with a quick bow he turns around not waiting for a reply and leaves for the Citadel training center.

Training at the Citadel is always an exercise of both physical and political nature.

There are the noble flock that were forced into doing it because it was expected; the vain who were doing it only for  the prestige; the dutiful who believed in the honor of the Crownsguard; and the tightly knitted group of misfits that Ignis knew deep down would become thirsty war hounds if Niflheim ever knocked the door of Insomnia.

Not that they were a group yet, but Ignis knows these things, has seen the birth of enough coalitions to pick up the clues.

He fits into none, his duties too clear and his branch very specialized. He graduated the training and while Crownsguard is in his résumé, it won’t be his official position. He’s the Prince advisor and chamberlain first and foremost, and he entered his guarding duties straight to the Prince and not the King –and will never rotate to the nobles as Crownsguards are wont to do.

Therefore, he attracted the attention of many –that and of course, the weight of his name and family. An uncalled fuss rose the moment he decided he wanted to be of more use for Noctis since he could be called up to defend the Prince at any time, and enrolled into the Crownsguard. Never mind that his mother had been one herself, or that the current Head of the Council had been one too.

 _An advisor who also fights in the field could be too dangerous._  Some had said.  _It would make an easy target. This is begging for a disaster to happen._

The King had granted his enrollment in the end, as had done Clarus, and a year later, he graduated. He could understand his detractors though.

Hearsay and speculation had landed the Scientia household with the strange superstition of having a streak in doing a major disaster each generation. Usually the stakes were overblown. There had never been the risk of a diplomacy crisis between Tenebrae and Lucis.  His grandfather had eventually married his grandmother even though he had lived in the garden outside the Marchioness’ window for over a week as a dare.

Others not so much, like the case of Ferrus Scientia, his great-great grandfather who had caused, by mistake and miscalculation, grave structural damages to one of Insomnia’s ports.

Usually the  _generation disaster_  took place during adolescence and the fact that he still hadn’t done so rose wariness in nobles and Citadel staff alike. Ignis knew it, knew the unsaid prevention in everyone who had information of his family history; he also knew that by the rumors, the longer the wait, the greater the disaster. He was fine playing along, letting them go around in circles like headless chickens: it made it easier to navigate among them.

If they were wary of a hypothetical event, they would misconstrue every single action as a sign of the bomb to drop. Keeping them on their toes helped him identify the terrible influences that tried to grow near his Prince –allowed him to remove them faster and prudently without raising any fuss.

In any case, if any disaster was to come, it had already happened when he was thirteen, the moment he awoke magic by himself. He’d learned to keep it contained, keep the fire at bay until Noctis made a pact of blood and he was free to use fire as openly as he wished. 

Training at the Citadel was a social test, and yet, it was one of the greatest outlets for energy and frustrations under the valid pretense of doing exercise.  _Sanctioned hostility_ , his grandfather had coined in their first meeting after his admission to the Crownsguard training.

Just what he desired at the moment.

After a round of warm ups he sees Sice Elshett, Countess Elshett’s youngest daughter, in the corner of the gym bench-pressing her whole weight. She’s around Noctis age, and chosen a halberd as her weapon. Ignis had the misfortune to find she wielded it well, with a mastery that bespoke of habit.

He had been faster. That’s what saved him during that first spar. Since last week, she was in the lead in their matches. Gladio had been particularly smug about the fact. Ignis suspected the future Shield had been training her extracurricular.

Usually Ignis made himself as inconspicuous as he could. Better to avoid another challenge. Today however, he itched for one good spar.

He approaches the mop of white hair tied in a messy ponytail, hearing her snarling when leaving the bar in the suspender. Ignis smirked. A belligerent mood, just what he needs.

“Good afternoon,” Ignis greets charming as a snake approaching the woman, “A smile would suit more favorably a Lady of your caliber.”

Her scowl grew from angry to furious and rose up to his face with a speed that was honestly commendable. “I’ll wipe that smile of your face Scientia!” she hisses and then stomps out. Ignis follows, of course, that’s was his intention in the first place.

“You better use that flame to fire me up!” She warns, halberd in hand, as they enter the training ground.

That’s what he liked the most about her. Whereas others would complain that his use of fire magic was cheating, Sice threatened with bodily harm if he ever abstained from using it.

_“You are his Royal Highness’ advisor; your covenant is with him. This fire is another weapon in your arsenal to protect his Highness. Don’t you dare pity me by not giving your all!”_

It had been quite the help while he honed the fire on his blades, and had grown studier as a result. Now the use of fire weighted him little during a spar.

“You are already fuming, my Lady.” He purposely aggravated, watching her reach a boiling point. If rumors rang true, he knew what had her tetchy, and what he could do to antagonize her just so. It would speak badly of him, but enjoying rattling a wasp’s nest to run for his life was one of his few vices “Don’t blame me when you get singed.”

“Let’s see about that.” Sice barked, rotating her halberd for a quick warm up “If I win you better tell me what got you in a twist Scientia.”

“Good thing that I know what got you belligerent, my lady.” He answers airily, smirk broad and perverse “Lady Catomidio would be terribly disheartened to know the letter was not meant for her.”

Sice’s face breaks in horror for a second and then twists in red fury before growling impressively and surging forward, halberd ready to tear flesh.

(Ignis walks away in a lighter mood and a tie in their record. One more match, and he will put sugar in Gladio’s noodles and the future Shield can’t argue he’s being petty.)

 

* * *

 

His good mood crashes that same night when he grows careless. He is in Noctis’ flat and about to cook dinner when Prompto exclaims.

“Whoa!  _Real fire_!”

Ignis is paralyzed.

“Prom what the fuck.” Noctis says, still slouched in the sofa.

“Language your Highness,” is the automatic stern call –second nature at this point. A good thing too. Prompto’s eyes (more violet than blue tonight) were still trained in the flames of his hand. The light dancing in his iris and–

Ignis closes his hand in a fist and turns around to the stove, moves deliberately slow and closing his eyes once he’s giving them his back. No, not yet. He shouldn’t have shown this fire, so close to Noctis and Prompto.

This was a mistake. This– 

“What Ignis did! With his fingers” Prompto’s cheerful explanation shakes him away from his inner turmoil, and from the reflection in the window he sees how the blond illustrates it with a  _wooosh_ of twirling fingers up in the air. Ignis has seen that move somewhere before he just can’t point out where _._  “That was real fire!”

“That’s magic Prom.” Noctis snorts dismissing the notion and internally Ignis sighs in relief “is that your secret specs? Using magic fire to cook?”

“It is much easier to graduate the temperature” he explains naturally –and while it is not an outright lie, he  _does_  use magic fire for cooking; it sits unwell in him to keep information away from his Prince.

It is easier to graduate the flame and heat – he had almost a decade of studious training to handle it so –had used that as a basic training exercise. Ever since he burned his pillow at thirteen; since he’d accidentally burned his uncle and grandfather; since he tasted ash in his mouth.

 _What the King knows not won’t concern him_ , his Grandfather had said. He had repeated it after bandaging his burnt hand. But Ignis hadn’t known then the weight of conscience it would carry for him.

Noctis just raises an eyebrow, but then is too engrossed with Prompto’s speculations about food and if it would make a difference to have  _real fire_  ( _it’s_   _magic Prom!_ ). He will not comment about it, mostly because he is of the opinion that Prompto’s unorthodox mixes in food should never see the public eye and it would not sit well with the blond to have his culinary skills (or lack thereof) mocked when he obviously tries for the best.

“You could open a bakery!” Prompto says during dinner. “Instant crème brulées with perfect crust!”

“I don’t particularly care about cooking,” Ignis dismisses the idea. “Being subject to such work is not what I’d envision for myself”

“Still,” Prompto comments, fork on his left hand and Ignis is still proud of the little accomplishment of teaching him the correct way of holding the basic cutlery. No more forks in his right hand. “You are amazing at it.”

Noctis sits attentive to that. “You don’t like cooking?”

Ignis tries not to frown. He can see Noctis’ regret a mile wide and the birth of self doubt and guilt. Truthfully, while he did start cooking as a way to cheer him up, he was never forced to cook for the Prince, nor does he see it as an obligation.

He likes cooking, likes having control of what he eats and the mix of creation and imagination it comes with –he just doesn’t particularly love it.

“ _Macte virtute sic itur ad astra_.” Prompto looked confused, and Ignis remembered the blond wasn’t actually from noble ground –something he was starting to do with alarming frequency. His education was of commoners, Prompto wouldn’t know Latin. Noctis was nodding though. “Those who excel thus reach the stars,” he explained, doing his best not to embarrass their friend further. “That is the insigne of The Stupeo-Scientia house. I have a fond spot for culinary skills; I just don’t see why I shouldn’t excel in them as well.”

Prompto hums in understanding. Between them Noctis seems assuaged and Ignis takes it for the small victory it is.

“I will strike down the projection of you becoming the royal cook then,” Noctis adds somewhere between amused and relieved. “The cooking staff is going to be so sad when they hear about it. Which is good, I was not going to share you with them anyway.”

That is one of the most unorthodox reassuring he’s ever heard from Noctis, but it warms his heart all the same. He will become a great King one day, and Ignis will do all in his power to have him live through his ascension.

“My gratitude,” he offers sincerely with a short nod, and adds leisurely because Noctis thinks he’s evil and sometimes it is good to remind him why, “I will endeavor to have his Highness eat at least one vegetable each week”

Noctis scoffs and sends him a betrayed look that can’t hide his amusement “I compliment you and this is how you repay me?”

“His highness health is important” he replies without missing a beat. Next to them Prompto snickers

“So, if you’re not passionate about food, what are you passionate about?” he dips in, violet eyes interested.

The first thing that comes to mind is his grandfather’s conservatory, full of light and games and gambles. But that’s not an appropriate response; he doesn’t want any of them prepared from when he starts moving cards if they ever play with him.

“You’re welcome to find that out” he settles raising an eyebrow at the blond.

Between them Noctis chokes on his food, and Ignis dutifully pats him to help him out.

 

 

(Prompto hums the chocobo song tune, drying the dishes. Ignis is washing them, but Prompto considers it an improvement that now he’s allowed in the kitchen to help beyond setting the table.

Ignis is particular about how to clean the dishes, and has a strict rule of forearms uncovered. Prompto is never going to make that, but helping him dry the dishes? That’s an accomplished goal. Now, if he could help in the cooking that’d be earning a grand prize.

He’s a little bit distracted though. Not by the fact that Ignis has  _real fire_  –and that still scared him a bit, maybe Ignis had some other kind of secret too and he almost blew its cover. But by the fact of his name.

Stupeo-Scientia? He’d always believed Ignis was called Scientia only and something tells him it’s not a matter of shorter pronunciation like in the case of Gladiolus.

There was a real heavy story there.

He could only imagine, whether it was the good kind or the bad kind. The noble world was so weird, and according to Gladio and his novels, prone to political machinations and other nasty stuff –all over a veneer of politeness and hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. He’d keep that in mind for another time, maybe he would know in a few years, maybe not.

He hopes that whatever happened didn’t hurt him too deeply.

Through the window, he can see light dancing near the far away buildings, but he ignores it, just as he ignores the urge to squirm when Ignis passes a new plate. As much as Noctis had explained, something inside him insisted Ignis fire was different. It had felt different too, brighter, heavier, purer. As if it was burning on its own instead of gas.

Ignis fingers are long and elegant, and the fire that danced in them… he’d wanted to shake that hand, through the fire. He had the urge feel that bright fire with his own skin. It was enthralling and harrowing pulling him to touch and burn in acknowledgement, in oath.

 _Real fire_  he’d said, and the impression remained with him. Hyperaware of the skin beneath his wristband. Had it been so tender?

Prompto shakes his head.

A stupid impulse. Better to wonder what could have happened for Ignis to be called Scientia only.)

 

* * *

 

February was a nice month for rains. They weren’t as heavy as in the middle of winter where it would hail or storm when the weather wasn’t cold enough to snow; and usually light filtered through the clouds making little rainbows in the distance –or in the rare cases he chanced to look through his viewfinder, harmonious fractals.

Prompto likes to think of these as the very first spring rains. The ones that nurture the flowers before full bloom.

In the Sparrowhead district where he grew up, the rain would bounce around the pipes and steel ceilings with a little pit pat; and the flowers bulbs sprouting form the concrete and rusty barrels would titillate with the water drops and their greens would change under sunlight as they danced.

He loved to play in the rain too, with arms wide open and running through the streets, or soaping an uphill asphalt road and then sliding down at great speed. He’d done so until that one time he broke his arm and he discovered what the tattoo –the  _barcode_ \- on his wrist really meant.

He knew better now. He knew to be careful in his games, to not cross the street with the traffic light in green and to be extra careful when it rains for sometimes cars couldn’t stop in time and slipped in the wet street.

Flowers are safe –the ones he sees outside his viewfinder- and at sunrise, they are pretty enough to stop his morning jog on his way back to his little flat. Like now.

Prompto smiles, eyes shining. The first bloom of the year!

Insomnia was a busy city though, and it couldn’t be more telling than now, when still early in the morning people milled away in their own business ignoring the first bloom of the year. A shame he hadn’t brought his camera this morning. But the weather report had said there would be rain tomorrow and it was better to keep safe vital research tools. He didn’t have the money to buy another one right now.

Ignis will love these; his uncle liked gardens and had a little collections of plants. He had been helpful too when identifying the drawings of flowers he did, or at least the genus.

He cocks his fingers to frame a mock picture of the many petal flowers sprouting on the side railing of the bridge, where concrete meets the Izami Park. He’s always liked that park, with the big sauce tree leaning over one of the city’s artificial lakes.  

It seems fitting to have the first blooms of the year here, and –Prompto blinks. Is his imagination or is the tree heavy with bulbs already? His face hurts from smiling as he jogs closer to the sauce tree, but stops and turns.

The flowers sprouting from the bridge aren’t there.

He goes back, studying the whole bridge, triangulating where he was and where he saw the flowers. They had to be there, but there wasn’t even a crack on the concrete. It was a flower, right? One of them at the very least.

Maybe it was just a trick of the light. A memory superposed in the sidewalk.

He looks back at the sauce tree, and frowns. The bulbs are still there too and yet… there is something nagging in the back of his mind. Something that says  _attention_ , and  _unusual_.

Prompto shakes his head, dread settling in his gut. No, it must be a trick or something. He had better finish his work out and start the day; he’ll just take the camera tonight and take the pictures. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Sauce bulbs instead of blooms anyway.

That night however, it was the same. In fact, it’s worse, the bulbs of the sauce tree are glowing, and his viewfinder captures it perfectly –even if it shakes with how tight he’s gripping his camera. From this vantage point not only can he see the blooming flowers in the bridge, he can see the  _lines_  nurturing it.

For the first time, he saw the dazzling sheen of light of the Barrier above.

He had never thought in depth what secret they could uncover. What could be the story within Her Walls? Ignis was so sure of finding one, of his weird quirk being the key and Prompto’d been elated to just gone along.

He had thought that maybe it would be something that would help Noctis. Or maybe an ancient weapon to stop the war. Or maybe something harmless, like the vestiges of an ancient river, or the migration of birds.

 _Maybe we can see them because we are meant to find one,_  Ignis had said, and for the first time Prompto feared that the secret would be something that would help the empire attain victory.

Prompto has noticed. He knows Ignis has secrets of his own aside from noticing the flowers in the pictures he takes. It might be related to the fire, it might be something else. But whatever it is, it can’t be worse that Prompto’s own. At least fire is more benevolent than what taints him.

The barcode throbs heavy in his wrist. Painfully so. As if it will hack his hand off. Maybe he imagines it, but is almost as if he can feel the heavy blood course through his veins cold and tainted.

Useful quirk or not, using it trying to solve whatever mystery this City had or not, he could never forget its origins. There were not child MTs, their power had to hit a grow spurt as they grew older.

It was bound to happen at some point.

The world doesn’t break, but it leaves him adrift among the sea of people and concrete he’ll never belong to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leuem is latin for frivolous.  
> (For the record, Gladio knows Ignis puts sugar in his cup noodles. He still hasn't found the evidence but he knows, and Noctis doesn't believe him.)  
> (Noct is team Ignis, especially if it mean his adviser won't put vegetable powder in his drink.)  
>  ~~Also, props to whomever noticed who Sice is. ヽ(´∀｀ヽ)~~


	6. Record scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some decisions are made. Ignis reminiscences about his fire. Prompto shows steel.

 

Noctis wakes up to the alarm blasting off. Next to him Prompto stirs, rising on his forearms, eyes bleary and stretches towards the bedside table. He silences the alarm with fingers that have no right to be so precise at this hour in the morning, after they enthusiastically marathoned the whole Mystic Saga III, and writes a message before sending it off.

Suspicious.

“Whosit?” somewhere in the back of his head a voice much like Ignis nags him that royalty shouldn’t butcher language, but Noctis has decided he’ll only function like royalty somewhere after 10 am so the voice can shut it.

Prompto “Sending go’ monin’ text t’ Ignis”

Noctis nods, curiosity quenched and goes back to sleep. It’s a bit sad, he muses distractedly eyes heavy and sleepy, that Prompto isn’t messaging his parents to let them know he’s sleeping over and instead is messaging Ignis to wish him a good day.

Wait.

“Ignis?” he yelps looking incredulously at his friend.

“Ignis?!” he repeats when there is no answer, tugging at Prompto’s arm to get his attention. But he’s not cooperating and instead just turns around, mumbling something about schedules and wanting to be the first to wish it and then pulls the covers right over his head and that’s it. He’s out like a rock.

Noctis sighs aggravated, crossing his arms. There is no way he’s going back to sleep after this. Not until he can make all the details he needs. Is that what he thinks this is all about? Did he hear correctly? Why did Prompto need to message specs in the morning?  

Alright so maybe his knowledge of that kind of relationship is bad (not as bad as Gladio’s though, he knows the big guy’s dedicated collection stored on the first row of his bedroom. The guy has no _shame_ ) but, if his suspicions are true, wishing each other a good day is a big deal. Prompto can’t just leave him cold like that after acting all fishy for months and then dropping that right on his bed. He needs an explanation.

… Which the phone laying innocuously on the bedside table can easily provide.

Well what’s a friend to do? Because he’s concerned about the emotional comfort of his friends, and what better way to avoid awkward conversations where he tries to fish some information that will lead to nowhere (Ignis is a stonewall anyway) or accidentally trample any budding romance, than to go straight to the source?  He’s avoiding mixing messages too.

He’s a genius.

Because he’s a good friend (even when said Friend hogged all the bed sheets) and Prince, he takes the phone carefully, making sure his friend doesn’t wake and, after quickly typing the password, he begins to read all the conversation from the latest message [ _Good morning Ignis! Have a nice day! I got new pictures! :)_ ] upwards.

(…and he’s mature enough to guiltily admit there is a tiny shameful part of him that wonders if him somehow scoring Prompto as a friend is just a screen and actually the blond was hired to keep tabs on him. Obviously he trusts Prompto, but, well, he’s his best friend and growing up as a Prince in the stupid Insomnian court did make him a tad bit cynical.

Just a tiny bit.

Better this way to nip right it in the bud and have that behind him already, right?)

(For the record: He’s not taking screenshots and sending them to himself to save as receipts. He’s a good friend, not a snitch)  

What he learns right after making it to the top are three things:

One, Prompto makes _effort_ to type correctly to Ignis. Like that would impress him or something. Adorable.

Two, Ignis sent a smiley once. One Thumbs up. But still. _This is serious._

Three, there is an awful lot mention of pictures, and taking pictures but none of them concern _him_. Actually he’s mentioned very little, if at all. The pictures shared through messaging, are of several Insomnian landscapes, one of the statues of the Guardian Kings at Sunflora park (Joyce, the Idealist if he’s correct), and picture of a book cover about something gardening related.

These guys are disgustingly adorable.

Just then a new message arrives. _(Prompto has personalized the sound notification for Ignis messages what the fuck)_

[ _Good morning to you as well Prompto. I am available in the evening. If agreeable, please come right after you finish your shift._ ]

If he’s not wrong Prompto’s part-time shift ends at seven. Seven right over means they’ll eat somewhere. Or knowing Ignis, he’ll prepare food. At evening, just the two of them.

_Wait._

Come? To where? Obviously not his flat because they must do it without Noctis. Not the Citadel either, because he knows Prompto would avoid that place like the plague no matter how suave Ignis can be. Definitely not Prompto’s place, because Ignis was the one who issued the invitation.

Realization dawns with horrifying clarity.

Forget morning texts. They are at the point of _romantic dinners_ at Ignis place. At night. That’s way too fast.

… And wasn’t Ignis birthday soon?

Noctis himself hasn’t gone to Ignis place. Granted that’s mostly because specs always comes where he is, but _Prompto_ has. Maybe he has spent the night already. Maybe they have–

He doesn’t even finish that train of thought, running away from it like a spooked chocobo. No thank you. He doesn’t want to know.

He leaves the phone right on the nightstand with the same care for its retrieval and goes to sit down on the sofa, not before shooting the dirtiest look at his friend.

They are dating right behind his back! Maybe even doing way more than just dating. He knew it, that thing about flowers in the pictures was just an ice breaker to flirtation. Ignis was obviously flirting and pulling all smooth moves that one time and Prompto took the bait. He should have suspected it the moment they met –and Ignis had a thing for _blondes_! Oh he’s not going to let them live this down when they come out.

He’s not saving them from Gladio either. They’ll deserve all the monumental teasing the big guy will throw at them.

 

* * *

 

It is still dark outside when Ignis finishes his bath. Today is a slow day in the Citadel, and so he can give in one of his few vices and luxuriate for a bit. Not in the form of waking up late –he does envy Noctis in that respect, he could sleep a weekend away without issue, while Ignis’ himself would be awake right on the dot every day, no matter how many hours _or minutes_ he’s slept- but on taking a bath.

The marble floor is cold beneath his feet, but all the windows and mirrors in the bathroom are fogged.

Once, this bathroom had curtains, had a flower vase with beautiful blooms his uncle or grandfather tended. But they are gone. For the same reason there is no warm water in his suite.

It’s not like he needs them, not with the fire burning under his skin.

The message has already been sent. There was no use on worrying any further.

He can’t run away from this. If they are going to move forward, then he shouldn’t keep that many secrets from the blond. He hasn’t read the prophecy since that night in the library, and time is of essence. Prompto doesn’t even know what they are aiming for.

Two minds are better than one. Ignis was doing a disservice to their cause when he hadn’t even disclosed what their cause was.

Without doubt a miscalculation on his part. Though he’d also wanted to test Prompto. Test how serious he was. If his friendship and loyalty to Noctis were enough. Excuses, of course.

Ignis massages his hair, untying any knots present.

When had it become second nature to lie and manipulate even those that were dear to Noctis? Those that close to him? Unlike Noctis, Prompto is just too trusting, his cheer genuine –even when he harbored secrets underneath.

It haunts all the same to withhold information, to manipulate and hide away. As if he was a criminal. Even though the farce, the façade of normalcy must be maintained.  

 _For their own good_. Grandfather had explained once between the lines. But Ignis knows he’s judiciously been using it over and over to justify every nimiety he liked. Has taken advantage of every misunderstanding, every plausible deniability to keep his secrets hidden.

Ignis sighs extends one hand, and flames come alive on his fingertips. Red and bright. The sway of the flame is different, a bit heavier compared with magic fire often summoned by passing Glaives, or the fire in the stove. Like wine to water, both liquids, but one had a heavier sway when tilted.

 _Real fire_ , Prompto called it. At thirteen he hadn’t put much thought about it beyond ‘scandal’ and ‘must be kept away’. Back then he’d been terrified, barely a teen, and having accidentally burned grandfather’s left hand. He’d had to control it, to keep it under a firm grip.

He’s safe now, at the very least. Fire seems a common denominator among the Kingsguard, and no one had batted an eye when he showed aptitude to it after making a covenant with Noctis.

Meeting Prompto however makes him wonder about the origins of this fire, of their purpose. If there is any difference between his flame, and the one everyone else wields. Or if they are all in his head.

Ignis is aware of the gravity of having developed magic by himself. It shouldn’t be possible. He had no relation with either the Nox Fleuret or the Lucis Caelum. The only families whose members could have magic on their own. It was a key factor in their right to rule. Was the world built on a lie? How many lies were told for the sake of this world?

What if there were other people with magic of their own? Were they silenced? The origins of magic were still a mystery, and he believes in the faithfulness of his parents. What made him develop fire on his own? Why does he have fire and not his uncle, or his grandfather?

Almost six years now, and he still hasn’t found an adequate answer. The fire is his, just like the nightmares, just like his warm skin. Are they all connected? Maybe.

Ignis looks back to the dancing flame, the room heavy with steam. This fire never rises up smoke not even while burning logs. In contact with water, it brings steam, and he still doesn’t understand the difference.

 _What the King does not know, will not bother him_. His Grandfather had said, had repeated it after bandaging the hand he’d burned when Ignis had lost control of the fire one afternoon when he was thirteen. He’d accidentally burned his uncle a month after – and almost Gladio during a spar.

He knows he’ll burn Prompto too. Thoroughly. Was his family a test for his actions?

Where did it come from? Where did the fire, the nightmares? What was their purpose?

On his bedside table his phone rest innocuous and cold. Prompto hasn’t answered yet, and Ignis doesn’t expect a reply for the next few hours. This is a Saturday; the blond might be enjoying tucking his head on a pillow.

He’s sure Prompto has an alarm for waking up and sending him a message; to have each one of them with the same periodicity depicts routine. While he is aware of the blonde’s tenacity, he doubts the blond has enough compromise to do all of them the exact same time down the minute every day without some external aid.

He’s done so constantly, always around a minute or two before Ignis himself send his good morning message. One of these days, he will pull _The comprehensive guide for witching hour calls_ on Prompto and relish on the indignant squawk.

Ignis still hasn’t found an alarm on his phone –not that Prompto could ever accuse him of rummaging through it. He after all is a good nobleman that knows a thing or two about decorum and private personals.

Mostly.

He just hasn’t been thorough.

Not that it would matter. Alarm or not, the messages aren’t prefabricated, or the same with different words. Each of them is new, different and filled with genuine cheer that warms his mornings. Each allays a bit of the ashes and the twitch of his muscles after another nightmare.

The windows and mirror in his bath are fogged. Ignis frowns, fastening his bathrobe and watches the warped silhouette his reflection made on the glass. He cleans the mirror once, just enough to see part of his face in the vanity.

Behind him, the sun starts to rise.

Tonight. He will tell Prompto Tonight.

 

* * *

 

Prompto still feels strange going to Ignis’ flat straight after work. His uniform is not exactly glamorous with the jeans and the white shirt with the café logo stitched in one pocket; at least with his school uniform he’d feel better. Ignis place is a different world than Noct’s. His flat is so meticulously decorated and styled with so many exquisite and elegant finishing in the corners or the ceiling or the lamps and the carpet –heck even the taps of the sink (for guests!!) are _hand painted porcelain_.

He misses Noct’s elegant but pretty normal flat.

Ignis’ is just taken out of a dream or something. Overly romantic, the perfect set for a movie about two elite noble star crossed lovers or something straight out of Gladio’s favorite novel.

Ignis didn’t seem to notice, and his uncle, who lives in another flat on the same building didn’t either. He seemed more impressed with the fact that Prompto was working. He never got the chance to explain to him that he working was not a sign of _ambition and independence_ but something at least half the teens of the lower to middle class in Insomnia did.

The picture he gave Ignis as a birthday present in advance is framed on the mantelpiece, and with the framing the picture doesn’t look too shabby. It feels great having splurged on it. He will take time off too on the seventh, and make him a cake.

He’s so immersed in his plans that it takes him a bit to notice something is _off_. The dinner was pleasant as was the little chitchat about the day. It took a while to notice the calculating glint in those green eyes, the wondering pauses between his sentences, the little second delay before he says something sarcastic.

It has him nervous. Was he found out? He’s been extra careful with keeping his wrist covered. Maybe it was paranoia, but he had caught the other watching it once or twice. Was Ignis going to call the Kingsguard to arrest him or something?

Prompto breathes and narrows his eyes when Ignis continues to eat. Slow and measured.

No.

Ignis seems, well… nervous. Distracted.

He tries to use the fork on his right hand to test Ignis reflexes, and it was only when he stabbed the meat that Ignis finally cleared his throat meaningfully, eyebrow raised and green eyes unimpressed.

Prompto tries not to frown. Maybe this had no relation with him. Did something happen in the Citadel? Granted there is nothing he can help with, and he wouldn’t understand a thing about the working and political bureaucratic stuff. But at least he could have a go at levity. A friendly ear that could keep quiet.

The pinprick of suspicion doesn’t lessen when they get up to clean the kitchen and wash the dishes. Prompto cleans his hands thoroughly and then opens the left drawer on the kitchen entrance to get the drying towels. At the sink, Ignis is finishing fastening his apron, sleeves rolled up already. He is particular about the way all utensils should be washed, Prompto has learned of course, but is happy to just dry and store them away. So he just goes to his right, towel ready to start.

At first he’d blabbed away, trying to fill up the silence and mask his awkwardness –and the fear that he might drop a plate- but he has learned to enjoy these quiet moments too. There is a combination of mechanical movement, their idle chatter about one building or another of Insomnia or the nimieties of his tasks. It carries slow and soft over the sound of water on dishes, of the tug-tug they make when Ignis is scrubbing them clean or Prompto is drying them.

There is a friendly closeness, not exactly intimate, just subdued, and subtle. In the rare occasions when their shoulders or elbows touch here in the kitchen, is the same as when he ropes Noct into a videogame night or when Gladio ropes him into a covert search for books. 

Tonight Ignis is quieter than usual though, and Prompto can’t help but think about that morning a few months ago, when Ignis had called him frazzled. Perhaps they are not the same, but something is clearly weighing on his mind –enough that Ignis doesn’t say _be careful_ when he passes over the knives. Prompto handles them with care anyway, and simply asks:

“What is it?”

Ignis tenses minutely, and he wouldn’t have noticed it were it not for how close they are right now.

“Later” he says after an agonizing moment, and Prompto’s stomach does a little flip.

Later turns out to be half an hour after they finished cleaning the dishes and are back into the sofa. Ignis had gone somewhere and brought back a leather bound notebook.

“I’m afraid there are tales rather dark within her Walls” is all he says, serious and grave while he passes the notebook.

Prompto swallows, not knowing what to expect, but reads it anyway. It’s all in Ignis’ perfect calligraphy, and he takes a moment to appreciate and be envious of it before focusing on the text. It starts with little notes about magic manipulation, interesting but a touch too personal –and that’s not what would have him so frazzled. Each note has its proper citation, and the blonde knows which topics are of more interest because the extension and detailed analysis and notes Ignis gives them.   

He knows when he reaches it when the calligraphy seems rushed, and his heart stops for a painful moment, something squeezes it unforgiving and with extreme prejudice.

_Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To usher in Dawn's Light will cost the life of the Chosen._

_Many sacrificed all for the King, so must the King sacrifice himself for all._

_Set forth and gather strength, O Chosen. The fate of this world falls to the King of Kings, His Providence consecrated in the divine Light of the Crystal. So it is ordained._

Something in the wording is familiar too. Is the King going to die? This is more a rhyme than a medical report or a threat. Almost as a divination, a prophecy perhaps?

Oh.

He narrows his eyes. No. His knowledge of magic is null, but prophecies shouldn’t be this cruel. His friend is going to lose his father because someone said so?! They don’t even see each other all that much and Prompto knows that Noct misses him –he’s gone out of his way to get him out of a funk so many times…

Ignis looks angry, and that makes Prompto pause on his musings. He hasn’t seen the other angry before, but there is something in the narrowing of his eyes, the rictus of his mouth… he’s angry and it is personal.  

The fate of the world falls on the King of kings… that’s not something King Regis has ever been called.

Prompto feels bile crawl up his throat.

“It’s Noctis isn’t it? This is talking about Noct” he says, once he finds his voice, part in disbelief and part in anger. He doesn’t wait for Ignis to nod, the look on his face is enough. Of course it would be Noctis, Regis is still alive, and he wouldn’t be so aghast if it was talking about Noct’s hypothetic son.

Ignis had sounded so frazzled that morning. Prompto had thought he had soothed this, but there was no way just a few words and jokes could calm down something this awful. All these weeks and Ignis had kept it a secret, and given how meticulous he is, he had investigated on his own, probably, to make sure.

To carry the burden alone all this time. _Ignis…_

“Who did it? Who wrote this thing?! The Six? I refuse.” Prompto declares, after reading the passage a seventh time, he’s on his feet, back straight and his blood both hot and cold. His eyes bore into Ignis, there is no doubt this was what had him so vexed those month ago, and a tiny bit of his heart goes to him, and how horrible it had to be to uncover this and keep it to himself, most of it though is dead set on flipping gods and prophecies right in their faces. “Noct is my friend I will not let this to happen. What can we do? How can I help?”

Noct is his first friend, his best friend, and he isn’t willing to let the Empire have him. Why did Astrals think _they_ would be different? They would find out the hard way no one messed with his friends.

He’ll keep an eye on Ignis too. They are a team. He’ll be more attentive the next time he’s on a rut. That’s what friends do.

 

(Ignis can’t keep his eyes away from Prompto. His presence erstwhile sunny light and vivant is now heavy and foreboding. It encompasses his living room, draws him close with a force of his own.

With the force of his conviction.

In his nightmares, Prompto is in agony, but there is no hint of regret in those eyes. Just like now.

 _Whatever it takes_ , those eyes, more violet than blue this evening, seem to say with stalwart resolve, _whatever it takes to keep him safe_.

He remembers those eyes vibrant and interested on his flame two weeks ago at Noctis’ flat, hypnotized and willing. It had scared him, terrified him in the momentary danger of his lie being ousted –and then, after his nightmares it added the dreaded implications. He feels chills down his back whenever he thought he was over it.

Prompto might not know anything about his nightmares, about the possible outcome of their goal, and somehow, something beyond him might know, might accept it readily.

Prompto will burn without hesitation, and it humbles him to have ever doubted the steel underneath the blond. It also makes his skin itch somewhere between glad and sad. The pain of burning alive is terrible; at least he will only experience it once.

In his nightmares Prompto’s hair is long. It should take at least five years to reach that length, if the blond doesn’t cut it in the upcoming years.

With the state of the war King Regis might not be able to withstand it for more than a decade, and then Noctis will...

Ignis nods, and Prompto smiles, a dangerous slant of lips.

Noctis will live, even if they have to burn for it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: Noctis. He believes.
> 
> About Kingsguard. It will be mentioned more in the future, but that's just the name of the Royal armed forces. Just like how national armed forces are divided into two great groups like Police and Military which are divided into sub groups like Navy, Air Force and Army and so on. I've always thought the broad term in Lucis would be Kingsguard which is divided into Crownsguard (the guard of the crown) and Kingsglaive (the sword of the King - also kudos to the wonderful hiddenreligion on tumblr who mentioned that fact and had me reeling for days because just whoa!). 
> 
> Early posting because tomorrow I'll be very busy. 
> 
> Next chapter: Scheming starts


	7. Timid euphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis and Prompto start working on gathering clues.
> 
>  a.k.a.: One day after the Met Gala I give you: Prompto Argentum dresses nicely for The Royal Museum.

 

  

When Ignis had said, _next time, we’ll go to the Royal Museum_ , Prompto had freaked out. From what he knew, museums were special places where people should dress smartly and be quiet. The royal Museum ought to up the ante by a lot.

He surfed the web trying to see how people were dressed when they went there. But all he could find were pictures of galas with nobles and socialites dressed in suits that cost more than a few houses in Insomnia.

He had to aim for elegant then.

He had with him the dark blue dress shirt he wore for the school’s interview a year or so back. He liked the shirt. His mom had said the color brought up his eyes, it fit nicely, and most importantly: if he rolled up the sleeves, it revealed dark red skulls and crossbones. It had brought him a bit of confidence, and it was the classiest thing he owned. He was going to need it.

The belt he had used still fit, just like the shoes, and well, he could use the same pants too. He hadn’t used them a lot since then, and it was a waste. This was a perfect opportunity, maybe, probably. What were the odds of someone seeing them and recognizing Prompto and that he’d used the same clothes for his high school interview?

Not many, hopefully.

So here he was climbing up the stairs to the Royal museum, with the same outfit he had for the High School interview, simultaneously praying it was fitting the museum and glad he hadn’t put up any weight since then.

It was Ignis birthday too. So he had to be extra sharp today to make up for the fact that Ignis was going duty over leisure on his day. Noct and he have a surprise party of sorts prepared, so at the very least he would have a prime excuse to steer Ignis to Noct’s flat.

Ignis was already at the foyer, and bought their tickets. As always, he was dressed sharp and elegant. Something that was way beyond his paycheck. He studied the other’s reaction, trying to find any hint of approval or disapproval, but Ignis was really good with his poker face. However, a sly glance around the people told him he wasn’t too off the mark with his outfit.

Internally, he sighed in relief.

That feeling lasted until they entered to the first exposition gallery.

The Royal museum was huge, that he knew. Yet, one thing was walking idly in the foyer, trying to not look up like a tourist and slyly studying what others were wearing; and another was entering the welcoming gallery. All high marble halls, large flowing staircases at the sides, and pillars with golden relieves, the marble floor polished to perfection, and the ten by twenty painting of five Kings with their royal weapons and some words in Latin (or so he hoped, that’s the only foreign language he knew was written the same as Lucian).

It made him feel small and inadequate. Those Kings judging him, maybe they would come out of the painting and scold him.

“They seem to do so, don’t they?” Ignis agreed, speaking softly and Prompto wanted to die. Had he said that out loud?!

“Here are the Kings and Queen Protectors of the Realm. The glorious scions of the stone.” Ignis reads, _translates_ for him “That’s the main subject of this museum. The explanation of each display may not be exhaustive, but the items are.”

Prompto nods. Yeah, that’s why they are here for, King of Lucis. Their guarding statues all over Insomnia and their flowers.

“Of the hundred Kings exhibited in the museum, only 47 have statues around Insomnia.” Ignis starts conversationally.

Prompto would be happy to hear him talk for a bit; more focused in continue to match their steps. But that tidbit piqued his interest “Huh? Why?”

“Insomnia was established almost a millennia ago. The Guardian Kings inside her wall are those that died after the City was founded.” Ignis explained, while guiding him through the exhibitions of excavated objects of the Crown City. “The collection here does have the records and lives of the last hundred Kings”

That caught his attention “Wait, so not even the first King is in Insomnia?” he asked, looking up. He’d thought the first one was important. That’s where the line starts, right? In all videogames the first legendary King gets all the bonuses and uncovering his reign makes up half of the story.

Moreover, the first king is the one that established bloodlines and birthrights –one would think that thing is kinda important given the monarchy thing the government is all about.

This is _the_ Royal Museum, where were the rest? Did they run out of space or something?

Ignis shook his head “There is not enough concrete information about them. Unfortunately, recovering information would be a messy business given our current geopolitical situation.”

They walk down the hall while Ignis talks about the migration of the Lucian Kings from the territories that would eventually be Tenebrae until settling in the far north and establishing the Crown City.

“However, the museum does have a marvelous record concerning the first King. Legend said the first one was a man chosen by the Crystal, with a Ring offered by Bahamut himself to help him wield the magic and powers of the rock.” Is his explanation while leading him to a small hallway and a Gallery “Here.”

There are no doors, but an inscription on the arch in golden letters: _Beatus regiis corónæ._

The exhibition is amazing. Embed in one of the walls, protected by a clear glass is a huge tapestry, at least a meter tall and, really, really long. One hundred thirty six meters long according to the information panel in one of the walls. 

No way, this is so _cool_! He’d said as much to Ignis, no who nodded adjusting his glasses.

“One of the finest examples of Lucian early art” he compliments with pride and something Prompto thinks is wonder “it depicts the struggles of the first Lucian King how he was given the Ring by Bahamut and his journey to the north.”

Prompto nods absentmindedly, engrossed in the handiwork of the piece, and the subtle brilliant lines he can see woven into the fabric.

Prompto is not an idiot, he’s seen the _No Pictures_ sign at the entrance of the museum, but he should have at least taken a sketch pad or something. The tapestry is large, and gorgeously embroidered. There are graulas, and chocobos with armor, a ship that appears to be floating, and so many people with different clothes. All woven, and all different.

Ignis explains, through Prompto’s quiet raving, that the tapestry also had precious stones, but the thread was not strong enough to hold them and they fell. There is a large interactive pod at the end of the room with all the gemstones and where they were knitted.

There are no lines when Bahamut appears, and from there on out, the lines are ugly, tinted with violet. It’s the first time he’s seen lines of another color, but instead of curiosity, he feels nauseated. Something churns heavy in his stomach, like an ugly mix of uneasiness, bile and anger. He does not want to see any more of this exhibition.

He briskly walks back to the entrance, ignoring Ignis’ puzzled stare and stops for a moment. He’d thought the bright lights at the beginning of the tapestry were form the exhibition plate. They aren’t.

Lines are there, heavy and angry luminescent. They scatter from the tapestry like multiple cracks on a wall, striving to reach something that isn’t there.

“Ignis,” he calls, turning around from his to look at him “The tapestry is torn.” 

“This is a knitted tapestry from over two thousand years Prompto.” Ignis explains adjusting his glasses, a slant of an inquisitive smile on his face “Back then, no optimal form of conservation existed. The curators in this museum salvaged all they could to the best of their ability and technology.”

Prompto hums unconvinced but lets it be. He’s not pouting. He’s not.

Not even if Ignis’ discreet huff tells him otherwise. “Shall we go to other exhibits?” he proposes, gesturing back to the corridor. Prompto nods, weird tapestry or not, he’s here on business and won’t waste Ignis time. There are things they must see, clues they must identify.

Noctis deserves it.

Unlike that first awkward moment with the tapestry, their visit goes continues smoothly.

On they go through different rooms and their exhibited Kings. Where once he could care less about the history of the Kings in Insomnia, now he paid attention for any clues in their history that could help them save Noct. Prompto hadn’t expected the topic to be so interesting, or at least Ignis made it so. He could admit to have paid extra attention to the really curious bits

“Do you know why the Lucian Crown is only a thread?” Ignis asks, as they entered one hall through a door and an Arch that were quite ominous in their design. “It’s because of these seven.”

The room was round and had seven statues with their banners, portraits and swords replicas like the other exhibits, and one at the center. By now Prompto knows that while the Coat of arms of the Lucis Caelum is the same, each royal would design his personal banner when they became of age. The room engulfed him in an ominous pressure, and he notices flowers blooming on at least three statues for the first time in the Museum since the tapestry.

Ignis began a short retelling of what historians deemed _the cursed centuries_.

Apparently Matthias the Terrible had one son from his second marriage, Adrian the Tragic, and a bastard, Soma the Soulful. Adrian had committed Regicide in order to save Lucis from the unsustainable war Matthias had started –Lucis had even conquered and subjugated Tenebrae.

_“That’s insane!”_

_“Some call him Matthias the Mad”_

Soma hadn’t actually entered the picture until Matthias was killed, being a bastard and a child kept in secrecy. It was Adrian who took him to the Citadel and many historians still wonder who his real father was: Matthias, or Adrian given the age gap between the siblings.

With two heirs to the throne both with a reputable background, Kingslayer and a bastard respectively; and a war that still hadn’t ended, Lucis was plagued with unrest for almost the following two centuries.

The half siblings liked each other well enough. Yet even when Soma had made public his rejection of the crown and the throne, nobles still rallied on the idea of him sitting there.  

Soma had left Insomnia with a team of Knights to help all the territories of Lucis and their people, and deescalate the pressure of the conquered Kingdoms. Meanwhile Adrian handled the politics and concessions Lucis would made.

Yet the damage done by Matthias had been great and one of the conquered and then fractured territories would eventually grow into the Empire of Niflheim.

_“Now the Empire is doing the same!”_

_“History of wars seems to be quite repetitive”_

Adrian had died in battle, leaving only his five year old son, Eric and Soma –again- as the possible heirs to the throne. To prevent chaos, the two had asked the Crystal who will it choose, and it chose Soma instead of Eric.

The Oracle of the time confirmed it.

In order to avoid what was brimming to be a civil war backed up by different noble factions, Soma did the unprecedented and rejected the Crystal. He kept the ring until he could give it when Eric became of age, but never wore it; not even when he was in the frontlines defending Lucian Territories or helping their people.

Prince Soma held steadfast in his decision to not become King and that his oldest brother’s legacy was the true bloodline of Lucian Kings. He was so determined in fact that he destroyed the crown when the council dared to put it on his head.

“Wow that’s so hardcore.”

“Many believed it so, that’s why he’s the first Prince Protector to have a statue erected in Insomnia. For Princes and Princesses of Kingly nature and protector of the realm.” Ignis agreed. “The Crystal kept choosing him over his brother’s line four more times, and was rejected. He’s the longest lived Prince, dying at hundred eight years old”

“That’s him?” Prompto asks eying the statue and swords in the center of the room, littered with so many glowing flowers it was practically impossible to see his face. At first glance, nobody would think he was a Prince, what with being in the center of the room and having around twenty weapons between swords knives and even a scythe. But he had been, until his last breath.

“Yes. Astrals certainly hated being snubbed, and Soma did his best to achieve so.” Here Prompto can clearly hear the unholy glee in Ignis’ voice, “we could learn a lot from him.”

They went to several more wings of the Museum, but none held a greater impact even with the interesting weapons ( _a serrated sword that sent lighting! As sword-whip that secreted poison!_ ) Or had flowers. Prompto kept thinking about hardcore princes stubborn on defying fate, and thought of Noctis with a smile.

It was possible to do it; they just had to look hard enough.

“There is one more exhibit I wanted to show you.” Ignis says, and gestures the door with no particular title on its arch, waits for him to enter before following.

The room was spacious, bigger than several classrooms, with black marble floors lined with gold (maybe _real gold!_ ) and stark white walls. The ceiling was high, at least three floors, and the cupule was white too, the arches decorated with relieves of winged figures and heraldic fleurs. In the middle of the room, was a large white structure with different levels and shapes Prompto couldn’t identify.

Ignis made a sign for him to follow and they went up the snail stairs, black turned bars with delicately decorated golden handles. Even if Prompto had forgotten the name of the Museum, this room was a stark reminder of Royalty, it dripped with black, gold and gorgeous cravings.

It was undeniably romantic, yet all he could focus one was the feeling of being underdressed, even while wearing the fanciest clothes he owned.

Ignis turned, two steps higher, and looked back in askance. Prompto shook his head, smile firmly in place. It wouldn’t do now; surely this was all too trivial a matter to him. That earned him a slight narrow of eyes and a frown, but he nodded and continued to climb the stairs.

Three floors. Prompto was right.

From here he could appreciate the object below, and his eyes widened in wonder. It was a model of Insomnia, without buildings, or the wall, only relieves of its soil. With thoughts of inadequacy momentarily forgotten, he leaned forward, forearms on the railing. Ignis joined him a moment later, steps poised.

“This is my favorite” he whispered, from the corner of his eye, Prompto could see a faint smile.

Before he could ask, however, the doors below closed, and the room grows dark. Prompto can faintly hear the sound of a projector –much like the one used in the movie theaters- whirling and below, the white model comes to life as buildings start to appear on it while accompanied by a moving melody sung with a lovely voice. There is the Citadel in the middle, barely the great structure it is today, but Prompto can see its growth and the lengthening of streets and appearance of Buildings around it.

This is a Journey to the building of Insomnia to what it is today. Prompto chances a look to the origins of the Sparrowhead district, and cracks a smile when the first building appears to be a shack with a hammer and a bird nest on the shop’s sign.

All around the model, the streets and buildings grow. A beautiful rendition of the construction of the City, and each black spot was…

“The monument of each King Protector,” Ignis whispers, closer this time. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he can smell the faint notes of his perfume.

“And the little golden dots?” he whispers back, leaning a bit.

“The princes and princesses of Lucis Caelum that protected Lucis but never got to be Monarchs,” Ignis explains gravely, Prompto only nods. That too could be Noctis fate. “There are twenty of them.”

Prompto did his best to take everything in, mesmerized by the projection below, the buildings appearing in the model, the spots of each king and where were they erected, the form they made in the city, and tried to find a possible pattern. Next to him Ignis whispered the name of each King and Prince as they appeared on the map until a bright spot showed where King Mors statue was built.

From here, Prompto could see the enormity of the Crown City. It takes a moment to locate the museum. They were barely a point inside her walls. He’d seen the maps of Lucis too, and tried to imagine the enormity of their continental Kingdom and got a headache for his efforts.

“Humbling isn’t it?” Ignis whispered, next to him, and Prompto was mildly startled by their proximity, by the heat of Ignis, their arms almost touching, “this was my favorite as a child, reminded me of the duties I would do, of their purpose. We come from a long history, and we are here to make it greater, continuous.”

“I’m not…” he tries to say and then cuts the train of thought. He’s an immigrant, a Niff, maybe worse, with the secret inked on his right wrist. Ignis probably knows that, at least about his refugee status, and even if he doesn’t, his looks are a permanent reminder of his foreign origins.

“You are part of it now.” Ignis declares with quiet intensity, voice low and a spot persuasive, those green eyes boring into him with certainty and something Prompto can’t name, “and our aim is larger than this Crown City. Larger than Lucis itself”

Prompto opened his mouth but said nothing, just stared back, feeling his ears warm at those words. He was right, Astrals fated Noctis to die the moment he becomes King and they both were going to destroy their threads. Somehow, the enormity of their task seemed achievable together.

“Yeah” Prompto said, eyes shining.

Ignis smiled back impishly.

Maybe that’s how legends started, Prompto liked the sound of it.   

 

(On the other balcony of the third floor, one Iris Amicitia, turned back to hiding behind the column, eyes wide and a grin under her hands. She was too far away to hear what they were saying, and it was her own fault she didn’t pay attention to her lip reading classes.

She’d known Ignis was a romantic. No person would protest Gladdy’s book preferences that much if they didn’t have something to _hide_. But a Museum date, escorting through the displays they both were interested, conversing as if nothing and no one else mattered in the world…

… and wasn’t Ignis’ birthday today?!

Iris saw them late, she had pretty much skipped her lessons to practice stealth in an open space, but Astrals, she had never expected this. Ignis had a boyfriend, and good looking to boot! Gladdy was going to be so jealous!)

 

* * *

 

"Where did you read that? The prophecy thing?" Prompto asks one night, after reviewing the pictures of the last week, and busies himself even more when those green eyes look at him in askance "I- I mean it’s not a complaint. I trust you and all, but I was thinking like, a normal person wouldn’t have accepted right away after you told them there was this prophecy that would kill the Prince."

Ignis looks back at the map on the floor of his study. They had moved some furniture to open up space. It is the size of a big carpet, and even though it would be better to have it hanging on a wall; Prompto still hesitated to say so. This was Ignis home after all.

“That is undeniably correct,” Ignis concedes.

Prompto hunched a little bit with to his camera. Was he angry? It is true that he believed Ignis and he would never question it. All this strangeness with the light and the flowers and Ignis being able to see it... That meant something. It had to mean something. But, well…  “Yeah, but then I was thinking. It’s not like I’m a normal person. If I can use this weird thing to help my friend, and to help you help my friend then of course I would jump on it... It’s not weird is it?”

Ignis regards him for a moment and the shakes his head lightly. “No. It shows your diligence and loyalty. Though I do believe you should be wary in whom you trust.”

It was incredible how Ignis did this thing where he compliments, teases, and advises all at the same time. Prompto wonders sometimes if that’s something learned or if people are just born with that gene or thing already inside them.

“Now,” Ignis voice dragged him out of his musings. There was an expectant glint in his green eyes “Look at this” he says gesturing at the map.

They were grouping the statues of King Protectors by the same eras in the museum trying to find a pattern in their construction, and interestingly enough, only two followed their order: the generation of the Lost centuries, all built around the same area much like their form in the museum, and the four flower Princes.

The rest of the statues of King or Prince Protector of the realm were not built near each other or even in the same area –and when they were, it made no historical sense. In one case of two opposing Kings were built next to each other. Meanwhile the twin Queens of Lucis, legendary for their closeness and love for sharing weapons, joy and lovers had statues opposite sides of Insomnia.

There was no historical pattern in their construction either, though they had a hard on for symmetries in some parts of the city. Whomever designated where they would be edified had sense of humor too. King Berga, the Fearful, was burnt alive and his statue was built in the middle of the Insomnian Sea.

“Wait hold on.” Prompto comments, watching carefully the pin in the middle of Insomnia’s inner harbor. “This guy was King five centuries ago, right? This country didn’t have skyscrapers yet! How the hell did they do it, in the middle of the sea?!”

Ignis snorts “the same way they started to build the first wall on her waters.”

 

* * *

 

Ignis looks up from the carefully tabulated spreadsheet depicting their progress so far. It had been his idea to make a guideline, and even though Prompto is carrying the bulk of their investigation so far –Ignis himself can’t see flowers on the pictures he takes and neither can Prompto- he’s been able to meet each goal so far without a hitch.

Such a dedication is truly inspiring, and sometimes Ignis feels he isn’t doing enough himself.

Prompto is technical smart. Not much for social (or at least where nobility was concerned), or language smarts, but everything with engineering, math and physics is his aisle. Even if he doesn’t grasp the concept on the first try.

Yet his passion is the arts. He has an eye for beauty, and even the pictures he takes for each Guardian King are beautifully composed. Ignis had suggested several school of arts; it was never too soon to think about where to continue pursuing higher education. Prompto had surprisingly refused. Though Ignis suspected it was more out of embarrassment than anything else. He _had_ offered to help the blond on his résumé and even give a letter of recommendation after all.

“Your competence in these fields is commendable. I find it curious that you don’t want to be a professional photographer,” Ignis starts again during a pause. Prompto is concentrated on the Map of insomnia, placing with eerie precision the red tipped nails on the Sculptures that had flowers and the blue tipped nails in the Buildings that had fractals.

Looking at the size of the map, and the treads they will eventually use to unite all the points, Ignis can admit this might be going a bit out of hand. Visualization is important, he reminds himself with a voice that oddly sounds like Prompto.

Maybe he needs to suggest they hang the map on a wall. It would look terribly suspicious however, but perhaps if they find something more conclusive he should just go and do the step.

He should also do something for Prompto. The blond was right. It is unfair to have him hanging by his word alone. It humbles Ignis the trust the blond has on him. He’s acutely aware of not being worthy of so much trust, not when he has barely opened up with other important details.

“It is a hobby Ignis,” Prompto says once he’s done rising to his feet fluidly and stretching his arms. He overbalances though, and furiously flaps his arms to avoid falling down. “…and I want to be a Kingsglaive anyway.”

Oh

“That is most surprising” is all he can say for a moment, trying to imagine Prompto in the black grey of the Kingsglaive uniform, with the cape and sword insigne. Tries to imagine him among the carnage and death of the few Glaive’s reports he’s read. Tries to imagine the blank look he’s seen in a few Glaives bloodied and hurt after a defeat in the field.

It comes easy even if the picture is ill-fitting. He will never accept Prompto washed in blood for as long as he can prevent it.

The realization leaves him cold.

Where had that come from?

The dreams were one thing… was their influence bleeding out? He and Prompto weren’t close enough yet. At least not enough to warrant such steel protectiveness.

“Is it?” in front of him, Prompto looks dubitative, Ignis knows that tone, the blond is second guessing himself.

 

 

Ignis doesn’t answer right away, and Prompto holds his breath. For what, he isn’t sure, but there is a little thread of anticipation inside that tells him Ignis answer is important.

“Maybe not.” is the eventual answer, and Prompto sighs relieved while Ignis just raises an eyebrow but makes no comment. Instead those green eyes keep studying him, and Prompto can see one how a hand cups his chin, a sign the blond knows mean Ignis is thinking and strategizing. A moment later he nods and adds, “If I may suggest, apply for Crownsguard instead.”

“I can?” he asks confused. Granted, even if he’d known he could, he had chosen the Glaives because they were in the frontlines against the empire and Prompto wanted to help hands on. But if he was a Crownsguard for Noct, then he would be with his friend when Noct finally left Insomnia and enters the battlefield.

“Despite rumors, there is no social prerequisite for applying to Crownsguard” Ignis explains, a faint smile tucked in the corner of his lips. "His Highness would always find it better to have his back covered by someone he irrevocably trusts."

Oh, oh.

His face must be as warm as his heart. Noctis was right, even on friendly terms Ignis Scientia is an unfair man.

Awfully kind too, and –well, what can he say to that?! That is the greatest compliment he’s ever received. It makes him all warm and fuzzy.

“You could apply now” Ignis adds, unheeding, or willfully ignoring Prompto’s mess of fluttery good feelings and pride.

That works on getting him back on track.

“Eh? Shouldn’t I like, wait until graduation or something?”

“You could. However…” and here Ignis eyes glint with something he’ll later identify as unholy glee for terrible, terrible machinations “allow me to retell you the story about how the Immortal Marshall got into the Crownsguard service…”

 

* * *

 

Prompto looks at the door, hands gripping tightly the folder with the required files for enlisting in the Crownsguard training. Idly, he’s glad the reception office is not exactly inside the castle, otherwise he’d have a second-guess crisis and not even step a foot inside.

Its doors are still very intimidating, with their polarized glass and sword imaginery. Nodding, he gathers up the courage and opens the door, finding quickly the reception desk for enlistment.

The Marshall only brought a ‘parental supervision note’ and nothing else, he’d caused ruckus and in the end one instructor had put him to the test to kick him out –but the Marshall passed and so he earned the recommendation.

Prompto was aiming to do the same.

Getting the parental permission note was only a challenge on getting hold of his parents. The shifts at Sparrowhead were ninety-thirty: ninety days in situ working and thirty days back home. If his timing hadn’t been right, he would have had to wait a lot.

They had been unsurprised by the request. “It’s a hard road, but you’ve always liked the Glaives. Remember the time you wrote them letters?” his father had said with a wistful smile “As long as you don’t feel it is an obligation…” he’d added while his mother finished filling the form with suspicious easy. Then again, his mom was the one in the house who managed the whole form filling for anything from leases to school enlistment. He’d learned better than to question her expertise.

“Here,” she’d said, carefully handing out the forms and then going to the sink to wash the ink stains from her fingers “I’ll give you a recommendation letter as well. Does it have to have the royal insignia or something? I know you’ll make us, and yourself proud” He didn’t know what to expect, but was really happy for their support.

In fact, when word ran out, neighbors piled up recommendation letters one after the other. “Those silly nobles might not think too much of my opinion boy,” mama Adler, the oldest of the neighborhood and surrogate grandmother of all its children said as she handed a recommendation letter spanning five pages “but Astrals be merciful if I won’t give them my good word on your behalf.” 

Now here he was. Prompto took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes.

The worst thing that could happen is –well getting him in jail or death penalty or something… and that’s not very encouraging Prompto stop going that road please.

He would at the very last make the day of these officers in their next coffee break and nighttime stories to their families.

“Good afternoon” he greets the secretary, “I want to apply for Crownsguard training” he adds, voice still firm.

“The enlistment for next year begins this fall” was the immediate answer in a professionally polite tone. Professionally bored too. 

Prompto places the files on the table and pushed them forward, and waits until she raises her head. “For this year ma’am” he insists and the woman narrows his eyes.

Oh shit wait, he was a guy?! There were days Prompto was the poster child of androgyny, but this man (or was it woman, damned astrals, even the name was unisex!) took the prize without any issue.

At the very least, they were evaluating his files so Ignis was right about still having a room for extemporary enlistment.

“You do not have a fitness recommendation,” the secretary says, leaving the form on the table, grey eyes judging.

That at least was something he was prepared for. “I came here for one” was the simple explanation. _Arrogance can be a confidence all on its own_ , Ignis had one explained after reading a book and Prompto just hummed away. His tone was neither, but it reached something of no nonsense by the twitching eyebrow of the receptionist. So score. “Give me your best; you’ll have your pretty note. Guaranteed.”

He knows this is the moment he will make a loud ruckus, arms flailing and screaming –at least that’s what Cor the immortal did on his first try. The receptionist regards him with pity, and unnerved, Prompto opens his mouth until he sees those eyes focus on someone behind him.

“Our best?” Someone mocks behind him, voice strong and unamused. The receptionist smirks and with a raise eyebrow gestures behind him.

“Indeed that’s what mister Argentum here said. Would you be available for the test, Marshall?” The secretary elaborates politely, but Prompto has been friends with Ignis for three months now. He knows the mad cackling behind the tone.

He looks back, wanting to call the ruse but… it is indeed the Marshall, Cor the immortal _in the flesh_.  

Prompto’s inner mantra is a small _eep_. Well, fuck him. This was going way too fast, but the point was going across. Gathering his best smile, he turns around fully to get face to face with a looming Marshal.

The first impression he has, is that the Marshall was more impressive in person and _huge_.

The second, he somehow was strangely familiar.  

The third, that maybe he bit more than he could chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: Noctis and Iris Amicitia.
> 
> Beatus regiis corónæ = Blessed royal crown. Of course, maybe someone who actually knows Latin could correct me, but I think this is the correct form.  
> The tapestry they visit was inspired by the [Bayeux tapestry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bayeux_Tapestry) of William’s conquer of England. Given how much technology old Solheim ought to have had, it is not too far fetched to think master embroiders could create a larger and more lavished tapestry recounting the event of another King.
> 
> About Prompto's parents: Ninety days (or three months) in the field and thirty days (or a month) free is the normal shift in many construction projects, especially in infrastructure or mining on remote locations. Prompto’s family situation in the game (and even a huge chunk of his backstory let’s be honest) is terrible –especially on its execution. So here Prompto’s parents exist, and do love him, and have a reason for not being there most of the time –and even then the neighborhood puts a hand in raising up the kids, since most of the families in the district are on the same situation. So sunshine boy has a loving family even when they are away! 
> 
> Next chapter: Cor. Oh, Cor!
> 
> (Kudos to the people who recognize who the Kings and Prince are from.)


	8. Citadel jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bustle of the Citadel and the many to whom it relates to.

 

Prompto didn’t have a defined idea on what would happen in the next step of their plan. First of course was causing ruckus and getting the Marshall to test him. Second of course would be the test. He’d had a nebulous idea of training and hard difficulty mode just nothing concrete. So what he learns in the first minutes of his test is:

The Marshall was scarier in person and doesn’t speak much.

The Citadel had a lot of stairs, definitely not OSHA friendly.

The Citadel is huge, bigger than anything he’s ever seen. Those towers might even touch the Sky!

The Citadel is more than just the Castle and it has training grounds.

Weirdly, there are no lines or flowers in the complex. It’s jarring, given that he’s already used to ignore them from his periphery.

When he was asked about his limit in weight training and he had answered he never had one, the Marshall had given him a judging stare. It was true, whatever he did in the parks training bars didn’t amount for much, and he had no weight training whatsoever.

Maybe he should have done some.

The Marshall had nodded though, and then said something about profiling test and _come with me_ and Prompto went to the worst three hours of his _life_. Thirty laps around the Citadel registering time; three repetitions of thirty push-ups, crunches, pull-ups, dips and lungs; running an obstacle course and then…

And then he had to dodge for his life because the Marshall had thought his reflex needed a test too and was hands on about it. No self defense class –not that he’d ever _had_ one- would prepare him for the mock fight the Marshall had unleashed on him.

That’s how his first day of –hopefully- official training in the Citadel ends. With him on the ground, sweaty, half dead and muscles screaming like never before and wondering if standing up was worth the effort. His beating heart is going to break his ribcage at this point, and Prompto would let it, if only for the chance to finally _die_.

He didn’t even land a decent hit, and he knew for a fact that The Marshall had gone _easy_ on him. There are no red marks on his forearms where he had been disabled.

Ignis said that nobody is expecting him to get everything right on the first try, but he wasn’t under the Marshall. Though he’s sure that Ignis would do everything right on his first try even with the Marshall evaluating his every little move.

Prompto however has to prove himself. Netting the Marshall’s attention is the easiest step after all, maintaining it long enough for the Marshall to give his seal of approval is another story. He has to get everything right on the first try, or at least almost all of them.

He didn’t even know bodies that were supposed to be MTs could have limits regarding training and fight. Maybe it was because he was rescued as an infant. Maybe it was because he didn’t take care of his health when he was a kid.

It doesn’t matter. Now he knows at least that whatever is in his blood won’t be a notorious or suspicious advantage. He’s just like any other, and for a moment he fears that is not enough to convince Cor to let him enroll.

Yet when the Marshal nods and says _arrive tomorrow at 6 sharp for your medical evaluations_ Prompto smiles. He’s in. Barely. The easiest part is cleared, now he has to do more than his best to follow his goal.

When he’d first heard about the branches forming the Kingsguard service, he’d chosen the Kingsglaive. He’d wanted to do good, to help the people outside the walls and rescue children like himself.

Crownsguard is different from Kingsglaive –one focus on subduing and guarding while the other in assassination and front line raids-, but in the end they follow the same principle: serve and protect Lucis and their King. The mark on his wrist was the beginning of a story, but now he could choose where he wanted to serve, what he wanted to do in gratitude for the kind people that saved him and adopted him.

Now he knew there were even more possibilities and ways he could repay and protect those he held dear. Crownsguard was a step, but there were others he had to take as well no matter the pain or whatever sacrifices they would bring. He would do all of them. For Noctis.

With Cor’s approval he can enlist in the Crownsguard, and from there graduate and protect his friend from both the Empire and the machinations of the Astrals.

 

 

(Cor knows this is just payback for his ruckus at the enrollment decades ago. Still he doesn’t expect the cheery welcomes.

 _Ah they joys of fatherhood!_ Clarus murmurs with a spot of affection that he knows is hiding plain amusement once Cor gives him the filled forms to enroll Prompto Argentum to the Crownsguard training under his regimen, _You missed all the good years Cor, teenagers are difficult. Congratulations and best of luck!_

 _The apple doesn’t fall far from the Tree I see_ , Regis says to him with the ghost of a smile when he revises the file of the extra temporal new enrollment for the Crownsguard training. Then he will add with a sagely voice that is so at odds with the man he remembers had to chase down a chocobo without his underwear all those years ago: _take your time to know him. You didn’t have the chance before, but he must have grown to be a brilliant young man. You’d be surprised._

Cor thinks that would be it, except a month later a Card from _Cid_ arrives, filled to the brim with all the congratulatory messages and odes to fatherhood he didn’t expect the cranky old man to have. He keeps it tucked away of course, no matter the stark shadenfreude it exudes, and prepares accordingly to whatever Weskham will send when he hears the news.

The gunner has always been insidious, Cor is sure he’ll get the information and will successfully send something too.) 

 

* * *

 

It is always an experience for Gladio walking through the training grounds in the morning. His father has a busy schedule, but there is always time in the morning for a little father-son bonding moment while he’s being taught the ropes of what a Shield of the King entails.

 _We are the Shields_ , his father explained when he was nine, and apparently it was not just subjected to battle or direct the Crownsguard and its branches. A Shield should also protect the King from strange nimieties ranging from cavities ( _Young Scientia is doing a splendid job in that regard but I still remember how Regis_ _tried to become a fasting monk because he didn’t want to admit he had a bad dental hygiene_ _…!_ ) to most importantly: paperwork.

Luckily this morning was not a conversation on why people thought it was necessary for the King to decree the official number of apples used in apple pie, and Gladio had enjoyed a good spar. He had been trounced soundly by his father too, but he’d drawn first blood. Small victories.

They were walking back to the entrance of the training ground when he saw Marshall and blondie.

When Gladio first heard someone had caused a small ruckus to enlist in the Crownsguard outside the recalling times, he’d laughed. The poor sod would be in the hands of the Marshall.

When Noctis had come to him to complain how Prompto was being stupid and enrolling in the Crownsguard, it stopped being funny real fast. He’d known the kid, sunny, awkward, impulsive, really cheerful and had the body of a frequent jogger. Two weeks in and still hadn’t thrown out the towel, so maybe there was more to him.

At least Iris thought so.

Blonde, male, pretty eyes from a distance. It had taken a few tries, but watching Prompto now, Gladio knew. Iris had been wrong. Not that he’ll ever blame her. Prompto had no sense of personal space, and whatever weird charisma he exuded would end up wearing down Ignis’ reticence. Someone looking from the outside, would see Ignis, close to a blonde unknown guy, just the two of them, and take a wild guess.

Wrong guess. They couldn’t be dating.

Mostly because Ignis isn’t a fool and aside for the major conflict of interest it would pose, flirting and going out with the Prince’s only friend had the risk of becoming a nightmare if Prompto ended up with a broken heart. A PR nightmare too, there were already tabloids rising the favorability of the Prince because he was friends with a civilian. The media sharks would sniff the fallout no matter how discreet they try and handled it.

What probably happened was that Ignis gave blondie the layman terms of what to expect in the future after he graduates, and he had chosen the path where he could still be at Noctis side and as part of his life. Quite commendable. It filled him with a spot of pride and understanding. Noct had found a good friend, and sometimes only one was needed. 

Especially the gutsy and stubborn kind.

Two weeks in, and blondie moves as if he’s had two months training. The Marshall was not letting him easy and Gladio wonders if the objective is having Prompto enroll in the current Crownsguard trainees group.

It is quite scary, and frankly, Gladio would have a newfound respect for the blond if he manages it. He’d have to wait and see if blondie cleared Cor’s standard regime, but if he did…

This current generation had quite the bloodthirsty wild animals in its midst. Two unaffiliated civilians as well, if Gladio remembers correctly. Maybe that’s what the Marshall sees? Prompto would be more at home with people of common ground, his devil may care attitude to nobles only zeroes on Noctis after all.

“Ah. Argentum is stirring up the enlistees already,” his father comments, “Cor would be proud. I remembered how everyone was sizing you up when you started…,” he continues with a nostalgic tilt in his voice, and then raised an eyebrow and nods a little playfully to the left.

There are several fellow Kingsguards watching over the different galleries to the training ground and, Gladio raises an eyebrow when he identifies several Crownsguard trainees. Like porcupine girl and mad rapier over the balcony, probably sizing up the competition like his father said.

“You had that happen as well, and you outgrew their expectations, my son” he continues with a smile eyes alight with pride and Gladio just nods, averting his gaze. That is not noteworthy. He hasn’t proven himself in the war, has not even passed the mythical trial of temperance.

His father hadn’t either, had given the honor to the Marshall and Gladio would have done the same given the circumstances.

He knows his father is sincere in his praise, yet it seems hollow, like a bad omen.

They keep walking close enough to hear Mad rapier huff “The plebeian has diligence at the very least.” Flipping her long black hair and crossing her arms chin up in the air she adds, “If he clears this leveling training, he might be worth the effort of the Crownsguard.”

“Says the woman who bet on him being approved in two months” porcupine girl, also known as Sice Elshett snorts and mad rapier bristles like a cat.

It reminds Gladio of her father, Count Harpe. Though brilliant, he was very skittish and Gladio believes he shares tips with Ignis on how to act scandalized.

True to thought, Queen Harpe hisses “I would never…!”

“It’s not proper of a lady to lie; Cinque is going to be _so_ disappointed…” Sice sniggers, leaning back on the railing, before catching them and straightening in a proper salute “Lord Amicitia, young Amicitia.”

Queen mimics it after a quick glance.

“At easy.” His father says in good humor, “Though I would like to remain believing the Kingsguard ranks don’t meddle in frivolous monetary affairs.”

Gladio tries not to snort. It’s not as if he’s unaware of the several betting pools throughout the Kingsguard –and he’s sure his father has partaken in some.

Instead, he says, “Get your halberd porcupine. Time to spar.” By now, he’d have a spar with the Marshall, who is presently very busy training the lights out of blondie, and it’s not even five yet.

As expected, Sice cheers, eyes lighting up and her smile grows feral. Gladio sometimes believes she would do much better as a Glaive, but her father had vetoed her enlistment. She’s probably aiming for a sport at D-0.

Queen did a small military salute and went the other way. Oh, this one was going to be a nightmare to court when her father insisted on a marriage. Gladio gives a small prayer for the unfortunate soul and with a nod to his father drags a very enthusiastic Sice to the training fields.

In the training ground below, Prompto finally got enough dexterity to land a kick on Cor’s shoulder.

 

(Clarus watches them go lips twisted in a faint smile. Ah, the innocent youth, so incensed with honor, readiness and knowledge of war but no experience outside Her walls. He’d been the same once, had seen the journey outside Insomnia as an adventure, had thought Daemons were A Maiden’s tale, that the Empire was famishing in a lost war and MagiTech a mere fable to keep their citizens hopeful.

Reality was different of course.

Reality was Cor Leonis, Kingsguard at thirteen, Marshall at twenty, training Prompto Argentum –the child he’d fought the Empire to rescue, the child he could never approach.

Reality was Reggie’s veins burning higher up his arm each passing day.)

 

* * *

 

Prompto does his best to walk straight and at a measured pace while Ignis shows him a small gallery in one of the Citadel’s entrance wings.

People really didn’t appreciate the blessings of life until they were taken away. Things usually taken from granted like, breathing painlessly, or being able to walk without screaming muscles and an aching back.

Prompto would like to apologize to whoever scolded him for being lazy and dramatic. They were _right_ , he had been lazy and he was _weak_.

His respect for the Crownsguard and the Glaives was through the roof. At least for the training bit –there were some nobles that kinda gave him the cold shoulder but he had expected the _you’re plebeian_ shtick.

Ignis, Gladio and Noct went through this every day. Mad respect for them as well. He’d have to catch up soon, there’s no way he would be the weakest link if they ever went camping.

That’s why, when Ignis approaches him during weight training –they see each other once a week- and asks if he wants a lift to Noct’s place he nods even if all he wanted to do that afternoon was roll on his bed before going to his part-time job.

 _A lift to His Highness Place_ is their code for _let’s see some interesting and maybe helpful stuff in the galleries of the Citadel_. It makes him feel like a ninja or a spy from the movies. So awesome.

The tours are great too. Ignis knows a bazillion things about the subtleties of the Royal family and their history. Even if he’ll never get accustomed to the Citadel and stop feeling like a tourist and successfully reigning the itch to gape at the luscious décor (there are tapestries eight meters long in velvet and gold with precious stones in some!) the art and gardens are amazing.

Now however, they are taking a detour for the cosmogony, trying to find whatever clues they can. The Prophecy was very clear on Noctis dying, for providence to be achieved. But the reason why it must be done, the ‘to banish darkness’ bit, is very vague.

Bahamuth’s hand was very specific in the cosmogony of the Lucis Caelum line of Kings. But the other Five ought to have a link with the line as well, and through them, maybe a clue about what darkness is meant to be.

If they know what it is, maybe they can solve the issue without Noct having to die. Heck maybe even without having him involved!

If they know what it is, maybe they will know what relations the flowers, lines and fractals could have with it –and what could be done to solve it.

Prompto was witness in how Ignis had become an expert in the Hexagon faith practically overnight. His dedication on wanting to save Noctis is awe inspiring, and it always pushes him forward to do more himself.

A bit of achy muscles are nothing compared to what Ignis must be doing.

Right now he is explaining a painting that at first seemed like a wedding, what with the Oracle decked in all white luxury of what Prompto thinks a bride should look, and a Queen of Lucis mirroring the same just in black.

“They don’t marry their lines.” Ignis said, when Prompto had gushed about how romantic the wedding was, and had then explained the painting was about how the Queen of Lucis was helped by the Oracle to commune with the Six. The ring of Lucis was in the index finger of her right hand, which meant she was terribly logical and had a penchant for commanding but not enough grace to commune with the Six.  

Disappointing.

“They don’t do it because it would be a political confusion?” he guesses aloud.

“Among other things, yes” Ignis nods, one hand supporting an elbow “The Tenebraen order of inheritance is matriarchal as is their command structure. Grandmother had a bit of a feud with grandfather because of it,” he added with a faint smile

Prompto blinked at the brand new Information. Ignis never talked much about his family, even though he’d met his uncle –a good natured man with a penchant for ribbing and gardening- he only knew Ignis’ parents had died, but … “You’re from…?”

Ignis shakes his head, glancing at him, those green eyes warm. “Only my grandmother was from Tenebrae”

It was still the same, Ignis has lost a home, and so had his grandmother. “I’m…”

“Don’t be.” Ignis cuts him, lightly touching the back of one shoulder. “She died long before Altissia fell to the Empire”

Prompto only nods, yet his heart still aches for Ignis. Which is wore, he wonders. To have a home and lose it, or to never have had one? “Maybe one day, when this is over, we can go and see what’s really like and bring back lots of pictures”

That at least earns him a quirk of lips, though something in those green eyes seem pained. “What a wonderful idea”

 

* * *

 

Noctis is a bit apprehensive when Prompto asks him if he wants to join him for a night and see what he and Ignis are doing. The fact that the blond tells him they are just taking pictures for Ignis to evaluate just rises all sorts of alarms and reminds him of the many weird euphemisms used in Gladio’s favorite romance novels.

(He hasn’t read them. He swears. They just have this strange power of appearing wherever he is resting. They have a life of their own and one day Noctis will be able to prove it.)

So Noctis doesn’t know what to expect. He’s agreed, of course, but is mentally prepared for whatever wild, weirdly euphemistic (and Ignis approved?!) task Prompto has planned for the evening. Therefore, it is quite disappointing and entirely baffling when they, in fact, go around Insomnia taking pictures. 

Prompto arrives with a folded map of the Crown city and two camera bags, one for a digital camera and one for an analog one. They sit down in one of the benches in the park and Prompto opens the map and shows him the places they’ll be taking pictures tonight, how quiet it is and _you don’t have to worry much about anything really, this isn’t Skiploom’s_. (That last thing loud enough for his incognito guards to hear)

Noctis is mildly paying attention to it; it hasn’t quite sunk yet the fact that they will be taking pictures. By the several marks in the folded map, Prompto has been doing a lot of shots in quite an orderly manner –which, intriguing, but it tells him _nothing_.

Pictures. They are really taking pictures.

Not that there is something wrong with them. Noctis usually goes along with Prompto’s whims of pictures. But well, is this really what he and specs do? What about the candlelit dinner? The reason for the good morning messages?

Prompto is genuinely enthusiastic about it too. His movements are easy, like this is habitual of him to do every night. The switching from camera to camera, the changing of a new film for the analogue one (people still use them? Weren’t they like, extinct or something?) and the steps used to focus one picture. _You have to stop breathing for a moment so you can have a better grip and avoid shaking the lenses when taking the picture you know? Try it!_

Noctis was having fun as well. Hard not to, Prompto’s enthusiasm was infectious and before he knows it they are talking about anything and everything from schoolwork (You think we could do a robotic something for Biology class?) and the upcoming addition pack of King’s quest (People only care about DLC packs, but have you seen Claimth sword family? Those stats are lit). He’s learning a lot of tricky stuff about camera work, and while he knows most of it is null, he’s pretty sure that trick with holding his breath is going to come in handy one way of another.

“It’s been sometime since, y’know, we hang out to just have fun? The two of us?” Prompto explains after a while. They are sitting on a bench in Gestalt’s park, long done with the pictures adventure and just enjoying a sub. What he likes about the store subs in this part of Insomnia, is that they put the veggies on another cover. He had absolutely no shame on passing those to Prompto, who greedily took them.

It had actually been a week and three days since they had gone out and had fun. But Noctis wasn’t counting or anything.

“You are training for Crownsguard” he reasoned, repeating what Gladio had told him and trying his best for it to not sound like a reproach. He wasn’t a fool, even while chirper he could see Prompto was dead tired, it reminded him of the early days of his training with Gladio.

Luckily, the training –even the crazy leveling Cor was putting Prompto through- allowed people to leave and do their obligations outside.

There are all kinds of rumors about why Prompto enlisted, but he really doesn’t want to pry. Part because he likes the theory of Ignis going on the _I want my beloved to have a protected status in the public eye even though it pains me because I love him so and these constricting laws I was born into will be unfair to him_ ; and partly because he doesn’t want to know if the reason has something to do with Prompto’s terrible image and insecurities he has of himself.

Prompto is his friend, his best friend, and he should never think that just because he’s the Prince the only way he can be valid as a friend is entering in the service of the Crown. Prompto is good enough as he is. 

“Yeah, but like, with Ignis and working and training and school… I don’t want to be too caught up on everything and not have time for you. You’re my best friend. I’d say ‘Bro before hoes’ but there is no ho, and actually, that’s a bit disrespectful and not comparable? But no one is even doing–”

“Thank Prom.” Noctis interrupts, genuinely touched and tries not to smile deviously when he adds: “For the record, I still demand you respect the bro code, even if I approve of the ho.”

“Eh? But Ignis is not a Ho!” is the halted reply.

Bingo.

“Who said anything about Ignis?” Noctis ribs with the biggest shit eating grin he’s had and takes another bite. He’ll have a chat with his Crownsguard later, this conversation was to remain off the records or _else_.  

“Oh.” Prompto deflates a little, and Noctis would feel bad if not for the chagrined expression on the blond’s face and the blush. “I walked right into that one didn’t I?” he continues with a little self depreciating laugh.

“You did.” Noctis hesitates on adding more, he’d want details of course, but, well, underneath all that cheer, he knew Prompto was very shy. So instead, he just shrugged. “Now show me what you guys really do.”

“But I’ve been showing it to you this whole night.” Prompto says, a grateful slant on his smile before bunching the wrapping paper into a ball and throwing it to the trash bin, hands up in the air and then groans when the ball misses it by a few centimeters.

Defeated he stands, and Noctis takes the opportunity to give him his own to throw.

“Yeah what _you_ do. What does specs?” he asks once Prompto is back on the bench.

“He judges them” Prompto must see something on his face because he elaborates “I take the pictures and give them to Ignis”

What?

Somehow that doesn’t sound euphemistic enough. Prompto is a terrible liar anyway, and it sounds genuine. Granted, Noctis hadn’t expected any dirty details or something (he wanted blackmail material, yes, but he also wanted to keep looking at specs and Prompto’s face thank you very much) in open public, but this seemed like an ok plan.

An Ok plan with no romantic follow up.

“Why?”

“They are for my portfolio” no euphemism in that either even when Noctis could think of thirty.

“Aren’t you training for Crownsguard?” he pointed out the obvious flaw.

“Yeah. But I need to keep my options open in case I don’t make it, Noct” Prompto explains and Noctis tries not to scoff. Prompto is already making a reputation among the trainees. If he keeps going that way he will graduate with no problem. That excuse, however, sounds entirely too logical and wise. It has Ignis’ touch all over it. Prompto believes it though, and Noctis remembers that his friend absolutely fails at noticing when a guy is flirting.  

Evaluating pictures at night over a dinner Ignis made…

He doesn’t know whether to be sad, or awed at his friend’s obliviousness. Probably awed, if only for the mental image of Ignis hitting a wall because his smooth moves have net him nothing. He still has Prompto for a few good months at the very least, and it’s not as if he won’t help specs if his best friend remains oblivious. He’s not that cruel.

“So specs evaluates your pictures,” he repeats entirely unconvinced, and trying not to wince at how sleazy it sounds.

Prompto, of course doesn’t get it. “Well yes, he’s the person with the fanciest tastes I know!”

“I’m the Prince,” Noctis reminds him with a raised eyebrow and Prompto watched him unrepentant.

“You have no eye for evaluating pictures academically.”

“Of course I can gimme!” he demands miffed. Prompto pauses for a moment, holding his camera protectively to his chest, before giving it to him with the most dubious look he’s ever had the displeasure to encounter.

Rude.

Just because of that he’s going to be extra slow in looking through the pictures.

“… so?” Prompto ventured antsy after Noctis has left him stew for a few minutes.

“… they look nice? Very pretty pictures” he hazards after another minute, looking at a picture of a dark red cat licking her right paw on a walk trail. It is true, the pictures he’s seen thus far are beautiful and lively. There is something familiar about them, but he dismisses as it’s probably the statues of the guardian Kings.

He can feel Prompto’s gaze judging him though. Not even Ignis’ tic when he noticed Noctis has bypassed all the laid traps and managed to eat everything without touching any vegetables, has been able to transmit disappointment so palpably.

He however, has an immensity of experience ignoring those looks and so continues furthering his ongoing streak.

“The light is good, and the silhouette of the statues is very clear” he adds nonchalantly looking at another picture. The same cat, only now she has her fluffy tail around her paws, looking interested at the camera with mischievous golden eyes. She’s gorgeous, it’s about time he changes his phone’s background image and she’s the perfect model.

The gaze doesn’t relent a bit. He admits it is strange to have that stare alongside the rarity of a silent Prompto. It’s starting to be a bit freaky.

“I can use fancy adjectives if you want. ‘Oh look the camerawork of this angle is simply exquisite. The way you capture the-‘“

“Shut it” Prompto cuts him off, taking back the camera and inspecting it carefully. As if Noctis could have destroyed it or something.

Why is he friends with rude people again?

“So you approached him to evaluate your pictures or did he offer?” He pries once Prompto finishes his evaluation, and makes the mental note to stay away from them. Cameras are Prompto’s babies, like specs with his glasses, and Gladio with the Countess series.

He will never admit to be the same with his fishing gear.

For the record, Prompto is good with animals in general, but Fish hate him.

“Yes.” Is the obnoxious answer and Noctis groans, how did he fall for that?

“Ignis is a photo enthusiast, who knew” he tries again, when Prompto stops snickering. He will get his revenge sooner or later; he’s just bidding his time.

“I know right? Lucky!” is the cheery reply and before he questions the false note there, the blond is doing a quick turn and the camera flashes in front of him.

“Hey!” Noctis frowns properly distracted, closing his eyes for a bit before blinking slowly until the last dots fade from his vision.

“Oh this picture looks very nice” Prompt begins gregariously, making a grand gesture to the digital picture in the camera, and in a tone he uses when trying to mimic someone for fun. It only takes the next few words to recognize who “The light is good, actually not really you have a very pasty face when you get hit with a full flash you know? –but! The silhou _ette_ …! Oh what a wonder-“

He lightly bumps Prompto when they walk next to a bush. That’ll teach him. He doesn’t expect the blond actually falling into it.

He’s laughing so hard that he ignores the nearby roots, and he trips on them when he steps away to continue laughing. The ground is cold, and there are leaves on his hair, and his hands now have icky soil, but the blonde’s disbelieving “Holy shit!” makes it all worth it. They are having fun.

(Prompto is surprised, because for the briefest moment, when Noctis touched the ground, the matrix of lines overcharged and he was able to see even the tiniest of them. They are everywhere, around them, dwarfing them and the statue of the Guardian King. It is disorientating, it makes his blood heavy. For the first time since starting to unravel the mystery has he thought this whole thing is both weird and grander than what he can scope.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I my defense, it is still Wednesday ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
>  
> 
> Surprise papa Cor! (and the beginning of: Being Cor is suffering™)
> 
> (Also, some of Noctis' incognito Crownsguard may or may not start to pity Young Scientia) 
> 
> Queen Harpe: as you may know, class zero from FF Type-0 is among the current Crownsguard trainees. I was wondering if maybe I should change it from Queen to Reina (Spanish for queen) in order to avoid the question "which Noble would be crass enough to name their daughter (and son) Queen (or King)?" But then I remembered Regis is the moon moon of this verse, so really I don't think this could be too much of a faux pas.


	9. Trumpet solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct should be mindful on who he sticks his bloody fingers to.

 

Spring arrived and with it, the social season commenced once again, and so did one of Ignis’ most insidious tasks of the year: making sure Noctis attended them on a timely manner.

Easier said than done.

Noctis had grown out of clinging to windows or doorframes to avoid going out, but there was always something inventive every year. Ignis was proud he had a perfect record of attendance, even if Noctis would be hard to handle the days after.

Not that he blamed him, of course. The events were often stuffy, and as a child it would never be easy to grow up under so much scrutiny and intentional interest. Ignis rouse a bit of interest as well, some of it unkind, but nothing could compare to the pressure on the Prince.

If there is something Ignis regrets, is watching from the sidelines how the kind and soulful kid grew jaded and standoffish through the years of social seasons. His hands had been tied in the matter, and throughout the years he had found ways to minimize Noctis’ anger, to handle the moodiness after every event the Prince had to preside or attend. Yet the wonder and open kindness was gone. Prompto had done a miracle and brought it back, and secured it fast to his chest.

Ignis would forever be grateful just for that –yet the length Prompto would go for Noctis, for their friendship and for his safety… it humbled him. Noctis had found a treasure, not many were so lucky.

This year, the Nobility had very high expectations after the Prince went to the house of Peers and the Senate to push forward the new normative for the handling of commercial pet fish. It so happened that the first event would be an opera rendition of the Famous _A mid-summer sleeping spell._

While not the Midnight Fast at Ethro’s cathedral, it would be a test of temperament nonetheless. Noctis comportment at social events was impeccable, yet he had never been too keen on Opera, and there were many a picture of him almost asleep in the theater when he was younger. This year he would be heavily scrutinized, and Ignis had to remind the other of comportment and the duties as crown prince.

Two things the younger man was excellent at ignoring and growing frustrated on.

He has the suit at hand –not trusting Noctis to actually handle it after that time three years ago when he rolled it up and hid it under his bed in a rebellious attempt to miss a debutante ball-, the swapping key card on the other, and after a fraction of a second to harden his resolve he sweeps it on the lock and goes inside.

While he expected littering in what he can see of the living room, he did not expect the extra shoes, or Prompto complaining from far inside the living room “Dude what the fuck. That’s gross!”

Ignis raises an eyebrow and rolls his eyes. Of course, this year Noctis would use Prompto in his arsenal of eschewing royal duties. 

What awaits him in the living room is a small disaster. Noctis and Prompto are there, of course, in the middle of screw boxes, bolts, some colorful wires and screwdrivers, a horror movie muted in the background tv. The living room table is cluttered with tapes, bolts, and the skeleton of something round that is being operated on, for lack of a better term. There is an open pizza box on the dining table, with a small mountain of vegetables on one side and an angry smiley on one of the upper lids with black marker.

Well, he didn’t expect Noctis would make a bomb to avoid going to an Opera, but Ignis can’t say he’s particularly surprised. Not even in his choice of support.

Noctis makes a face when he sees him, and Prompto has to turn around, a hand cleaning his mouth, and then waves it as a greeting entirely confused.

“Good evening, your Highness, Prompto.” He greets with a small nod, “may I enquire what you both are doing?”

“A science project. Noct had the idea we could do a warming gardening pot to keep small plants safe in winter…” Prompto begins, and goes on a detailed journey of the different ideas they had for the science project, which were vetoed and why, and how they settled on the gardening pot giving the longer winter nights in the recent years and how it would impact greatly on the many Insomnian households who grew their own little harvest garden at home.

A very commendable pursuit, yet Ignis can see the evil smirk Noctis tries to hide as Prompto goes on and on. He’s not the only one who would use the blond for his tactics.

Not the only one presently using him, Ignis mentally corrects himself.

It was tactical at first, with the blond training in the Crownsguard, any meeting or conversation between them could be brushed off as coincidental. Prompto is a perfect candidate for the service anyway, loyal, determined, diligent and with a  scary tenacity in finishing whatever he starts –Ignis will never feel guilty for having a hand in steering him away from the Kingsglaive.

Prompto could make a great Crownsguard for Noctis. The third.

When the time comes, he will be able to bring Prompto to the private Royal Library, and will show him the cursed leather book depicting the Prophecy. Prompto had believed his written words, but Ignis doesn’t like feeling he’s leading someone by the nose –especially when there are things he still hides.

Meanwhile they can explore other Gallery wings of the Citadel without arising suspicion. Ignis has been very studious and careful to not match his entire weight training schedule with Prompto. One thing is to have sporadic rendezvous under the premise of training and friendship with the prince, and another entirely to meet every day denoting a closer connection.

It also helps that Gladio has taken the opportunity to snag the blond away the few times their weight training has coincided too.

There are rumors about being friends with the prince and preferential treatment –but everyone that has seen one training session of Prompto with the Marshall quiets quickly. A shame not many had yet.

It’s uncanny how Prompto vastly ignores the range of his own abilities, always brushing up any accomplishments as if they were something barely achieved. The Marshall is drilling at least half a month of preparation each week, and Prompto marches through each unflinchingly and undaunted.

At this rate, He’ll be joining the current batch of trainees who started in fall of last year.

Maybe by then Prompto would be more aware of himself, and when people are candidly using him to divert attention and using him as a decoy.

“Fascinating” he commends once the blond has finished, and it mollifies his sense of retribution a little when Prompto smiles and scratches the back of his neck with a small _it’s nothing really, the idea was Noct’s._

“Concerning that,” he starts inwardly pleased at the open door with a splendid poker face “what did his Highness do?”

“I’m just screwing the bolts” Noctis explains, with a screwdriver in one hand, fingers clean, except for a loose band aid on his left pinky, and at this point, that’s all Ignis cares about.

“Certainly you could help more by tidying up the table? My apologies Prompto,” he bows a little to the startled blond “His Highness had previous compromises. I promise the work you have done today will remain untouched as much as possible. If you’ll allow us?”

Prompto blinks, and looks back at Noctis with a raised eyebrow and shifty eyes. “Yeah go ahead.” He agrees shrugging. “This part is already done, I think I can tidy up the table” he adds when Noctis opens his mouth.

Nodding, Prompto rises up and goes to the dinner table. “Noct you should’ve told me you had important business stuff, we have like a week or something to finish the project”

Noctis glares at his back, and then at Ignis with the eyes of the truly affronted. “You were supposed you defend me!”

“But I am defending you!” Prompto sing-songs bringing a box and a case. “D’you think Ignis would be so calm and stuff if he found you alone, and knowing you haven’t taken a shower? He’d probably bite your head off, and then I’d be without my best friend –eh no offense Ignis”

“None taken.” Ignis says, ignoring the pitiful wail of _Prompto how could you!_ Noctis makes as he slumps on the table hands splayed on the length and head hung in defeat. Prompto takes the warming pot out of the dramatic way. Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose, there are more stressing matters and he’s glad he came earlier than usual this afternoon “Though I do believe I’ve grown rather hungry for heads recently”

On the table, Noctis glowers.

“My apologies your Highness, I’m afraid I could not hear what you said.”

Noctis raises his head, and repeats rolling his eyes. “I’ll go and take my shower”

He can’t stop himself from adding an exasperated “I am grateful” when the dark haired teen rises up and stalks to the bathroom. Down on the floor Prompto fidgets as little, looking worriedly where Noctis disappeared. 

“He’s always a handful at this time, don’t pay it any mind” Ignis advises.

Prompto nods, and goes back to packing the bolts and screws and the warming pot dutifully and caring. “I did not lie though, this part was finished.” He doesn’t need to the see blond to hear his pout.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Ignis offers, hanging the suit by the window and turning around. With how hectic of the last few days had been, finding a space for continuing their research had proved difficult. While he was sure Prompto continued taking pictures, they hadn’t had the opportunity to meet and discuss the findings. At the very least, he would like to know the reasons behind the ominous text from three nights ago about Noctis powering the lines.

Making a meal in Noctis’ flat was not the most inconspicuous place –and it would weight a bit on his schedule today- but surely it could work. Unless of course, Prompto too had previous compromises.

Prompto shakes his head. “Thanks but don’t worry. Once I finish organizing I’ll see myself out!” the smile is a little bit strained, but still genuine. Ignis lets that go with a nod and leaves the flat to get decent take out.

When he returns, he’s relieved Prompto is still there and everything has been as organized as possible by a teen. The blond is fastening his backpack when they exchange greetings for the second time that afternoon.

“Noct still in the shower” Prompto reports with a shrug “and I’m… yeah, I’m leaving. Have a good night you two” he explains shyly, gesturing to the door.

“Before that” Ignis calls, and Prompto turns around curiosity changing to surprise when he sees the white fabric bag.

“Ignis, what…?”

“Your supper,” he explains plainly. “I prepared accordingly, in case you were here tonight.”

“Ignis this is take out,” Prompto points out, raising an eyebrow.

“According to preparation” He repeats the bald-faced lie and Prompto shifts a little.

While today was a surprise and the blond _had_ declined to join them for supper, Ignis _is_ taking every chance he has to make Prompto eat nutritious food. He knows the blond is capable of making it himself, but why shouldn’t Ignis do an extra when the opportunity presents itself? Noctis approves of it too –though Ignis is sure part of it stems from having a friend he can give the vegetables to.

“Take this with you.” Ignis repeats, stepping aside so that Prompto can leave if he wants to. The blond is gaining muscle, but a healthy protein diet is important, especially for people who had a low blood pressure. “I insist.”

Prompto swallows, but takes the bag with hesitant fingers.

“Thank you.”

Ignis had been thanked many times in the past, yet with Prompto there is always a sweet novelty in his genuine gratitude. It’s impossible not to smile and be humbled by it.

 

* * *

 

There are times Prompto wants to be on his bed forever and not get out. That’s something Noct wholeheartedly agrees, and will probably make it a life goal. Prompto only wishes for it sometimes, knowing it will never be true.

So he panics accordingly when he can’t get up at all. He can move from one side to the other, but he can’t get _up_. It almost feels like someone is sitting on him – _all_ of him. He frantically crawls his way to one side of the bed, maybe it is just something on the bed? Maybe something fell down, there was an earthquake and he slept through it, maybe the drywall of the ceiling fell down and he was too dead tired to notice, maybe–

The covers cushions the worst when he falls down the bed. Still no success though, the pressure stays, and he still can’t get up. From this point however, he can see there is nothing on his bed and as chill goes down his spine and settles right at home. He tries everything, flailing, trying to turn around to see what could be, pushing his hands under his chest to try and push himself up.

Nothing works.

“Call Ignis! Speaker on!” he shouts as clearly as he can with his face planted on the floor. Luckily he hears the tune of a call loud and clear. Prompto sighs relieved, Astrals bless all the technology advances and the fact that an intelligent voice controlled phone was within his budget.

It takes a minute of fretting, and trying to ignore the uncomfortable pressure but Ignis answers.

“Ignis!” he greets hopping it doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. The pressure doesn’t relent, instead it increases, and Prompto gasps and breathes in with effort.

“Prompto?” Ignis starts, and he can _feel_ the concern. He’ll apologize later; right now however, he needs his help.

“Prom…?!” He hears through the phone.

His blood grows colder. Shit. “Noct?!”

“I’m currently with his Highness.” Ignis explains, and in all honesty, Prompto should have known Ignis would be with Noctis. They went together last night to the serious political meeting and stuff.

What time is it? Was he interrupting?! Oh man.

“Is something wrong?” Ignis asks, and maybe it’s his imagination, but it’s almost as if he can feel Ignis leaning through his window and looking concerned.

He can hear Noctis faux aggrieved voice whispering _why would he call you? I’m his friend. Prompto why would you call specs and not me? I was rooting for you!_

“Actually never mind it’s–”

“Nonsense,” Ignis interjects decisively. “You sound distressed.”

“Nothing I can’t handle now that I think about it. Sorry for the call.” And right at that moment, his nightstand crashes with the pressure. Shit.

“Prompto what is occurring?” Ignis voice grows tense. Prompto can’t imagine what everything must sound like on the other side.

“I’m not being attacked!” Prompto wails immediately, trying to dissuade whatever bad case scenario. “It’s just -I can’t get up. _At all_. And like, I can feel my muscles? But there like something pushing me down?”

He makes zero sense, but maybe Ignis can get something from that garbled mess.

“… did you drink something from a stranger last night…?” Ignis voice is faint, and Prompto frowns, how does that have anything to do with his situation? He never had, of course, but what kind of connection would–

“Oh Fuck.” Noct’s voice is loud and clear through the line.

“Language your Highness!” Ignis admonishes and Prompto hears the struggle of someone taking the phone.

“Prom where are you?” Noctis practically screams through the speaker, it’s strong, a bit aggravated and undeniably concerned.

“Home.” He answers groaning before registering what he said and adds quickly “Hey don’t come. It’s a terrible idea–”

“Sorry on our way.” Noct says and hangs up.

Being pinned to the floor, Prompto loses track of time. He hopes that maybe Noctis doesn’t remember where he lives. He doesn’t know if this pressure thing is dangerous. Maybe because his door is closed it won’t go outside, but who knows? It’s dangerous.

“Prom?” he could hear from the other side of the room

“Don’t come close!” he shouts

“What is the matter?” That one is Ignis.

“I don’t know!” Prompto whines with a thread of voice. The pressure hurts and this whole thing is scary. Oh god, what if it is the MT thing in his body? What if he’s going to die?! Shit this was just too dangerous, “Just woke up, tried to stand and this happened. I can’t move, I’m stuck. This is bad. Don’t come!”

He can’t hear what happens at the other side of his bed, only the muttering between the two and then a loud noise of something falling down.

Prompto mentally apologizes to his landlady.

“Oh damn. This is not what I expected.” Noctis croaks, maybe a bit pained and Prompto blanches. That noise was Noct going down. Shit, whatever the thing is, it had an area of effect.

“Noct?!”

“His Highness gave you a drop of his blood,” Ignis says from the door, composed as ever so maybe he wasn’t affected “which is a ritual for covenant that _should only be done after a person has been cleared for Glaive or Crownsguard duty_ ” he emphasizes with a fervor Prompto suspects comes from repetition.

He would feel bad about it, except he’s been face planted on the floor for maybe the last two hours and if this is somehow connected with the gross blood thing from last night and not whatever thing was in his body...

Would it make it a bad friend if he doesn’t defend Noct this time?

“Good news! You have a magic core Prom!” Noctis answers somewhere on the other side of his bed, chagrined.

“How do you think this is good news?!” He wails, and forgets about feeling bad for not defending Noct. Obviously, he deserved it. Oh hey, it was easier to stand up now and–

He groans when his head and body hits the ceiling. Next to him Noctis does the same. From here he can see Ignis, still dressed the same as yesterday, judging them by the door. He hums, and then takes a coin and flicks it towards them.

The moment it reaches the area of effect (less than a meter from the door) it immediately goes up with enough force to embed itself on the ceiling.

Oh the landlady is going to be so mad. 

“Prom?” Noctis says with a hint of hysteria and desperation, eyes glued where the coin is buried “I’m so glad you don’t have any knives in your room or lamps in your ceiling. I’m so, so _glad_!”

“If I may suggest,” Ignis interrupts from his place at the door. “The magic seems to answer to emotional impulse. Perhaps if you think of neutral emotions it would help you to stay balanced”

He nods and closes his eyes in concentration, finally reaching it when he thinks about the hand painted porcelain taps in Ignis’ bathroom. They are pretty and ridiculous. It is enough to lower him back to the floor and Noctis warps out of the room mid fall. Prompto can hear him groan outside, but he admits it was for the best.

“You have gravity magic.” Ignis starts the moment he enters the living room, he hasn’t changed clothes yet, didn’t want to risk the _magic_ acting up and having to be rescued again half naked. His chocobo printed pjs would suffice for now. A good thing too, that he slept with his wrist covered. It would be a bigger disaster otherwise.

“Is that uncommon?” he asks wary, sitting down.

“Maybe? Not many people develop magic from a Royal Covenant.” Noctis shrugs, then passes an arm around him and leers “But hey, it was cool to feel _real_ gravity”

“Oh shut up!” Prompto flushes embarrassed and he would have elbowed Noctis, but right then he started to float away –would have gone right to the ceiling if not for Ignis pulling him down to the sofa by his foot like a balloon. Ignis hands were warm, he idly noticed, and quietly enjoyed how the warmth of those hands seeped through his clothes when Ignis placed them on his shoulders to keep in the sofa.

“It was only a drop, and devoid of any binding ritual. It’ll fade in a few hours.” He spoke over his head “Until then, we’ll take you to his Highness flat for supervision.”

 

(It doesn’t fade until a week later. Prompto had been unabashedly moved to Noctis flat for the duration of it, and he still wonders what excuse was given to Cor.

Something believable he hopes.

Gladio found it hilarious –after berating Noct though-, sometimes throwing things like cards, or water bottles, or a magazine at where he floated just to see if they entered his gravity sphere. Sometimes not even while he was floating, and Prompto had honed a decent sense of danger and a skill to dodge objects. Yet Gladio always dutifully moved the sofa to where he ended up floating after a hearty good laugh. “Use this to train how to land!”

“You should take responsibilty for your transgression your Highness” Ignis chastised when in a bout of unexpected gravity, Prompto crushed the videogame console they were playing. The blond didn’t hear a lot though, too horrified and guilty about it.)

(In the upcoming months he will discover that no matter how believable an Excuse, Cor will exponentially harden his training regime for each day missing.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Gladio threw at Prompto in no particular order:  
> 1\. A can of soda  
> 2\. The keys of his car (they got stuck on Noct's ceiling, and to this day, there they remain)  
> 3\. The one romantic book of his favorite Author he didn't like  
> 4\. A shirt  
> 5\. A pillow  
> 6\. A magazine and an empty bottle of water  
> 7\. A paper towel folded into a plane  
> 8\. Himself, just to see if it was the real deal. (It resulted on a concussion, Ignis' eternal disapproval and a strongly worded lecture. Noct has it all on video, just in case.)


	10. Sax improvisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now: Ignis and Prompto do an improvisation.

 

Prompto enters the Citadel gym, still reeling from his meeting with the Marshal. It takes him a moment to locate his training menu, but even then, he’s too busy overcoming the shock. Cor just cleared him to join the rest of the Crownsguard training batch! Even with the ‘penalty’ regimen, he got after missing a week of training!

The Marshall was displeased, but whatever excuse Noct had given was weighty enough. In the end, he had earned the seal of approval and tomorrow he would join the batch. It means he’s good, and that should make him feel proud –and it does! But also, well… he’s not very good at socializing, and…

He shakes his head, going for the training machines. Well, as long as he can work with the team and plaster the best cheer everything will be fine, right? No snooty noble or weird nobility sanction or expectation will stop him from graduating.

He just has to believe it. A step at a time. A step closer to discover more things about the prophecy. A step closer to protect Noct.

He exhales and lets go of the weight of the cable triceps bar to recover between batches. Going to the Citadel gym is wonderful. He’s finally realizing the difference between doing real weight training and doing some exercises on bars in the parks. He totally understands the Marshall back when he asked the question; he absolutely deserved that stare of disbelief.

Just two months of a weight-training regime and he feels muscle. It has lessened the fat on his middle, and last night he touched his stomach and it was _firm_. He called mom to tell her the news, and had to stop the silly urge to go to Noct’s and show off.

Weight training was awesome, and it made him feel good too.   

“There you are!” a girl says somewhere behind him and then he feels someone hugging him from behind. Prompto drops the bar, startled, and then flinches at the noise the weight does when it crashes down.

If he were aware of it, he would find it suspicious that no one in the gym batted an eye at the noise.  When he turns around, he sees a girl, short brown hair, sports bra and heavy-duty pants followed by a blonde guy in similar sports gear.

Prompto tries not to blush at the fact that he probably felt her… _her_ … ugh

She’s pretty.

“You’re Prompto right?” the girl says, brown eyes big and sparkling, and still hasn’t let go of his arm, maybe he’s dead and doesn’t know it yet?! Since when did pretty girls approach a guy like him?!

“We heard all about you. Nice kick you did to the Marshall last week, Octo was really growling the whole day” Blond Guy says, passing an arm around his shoulders, like this was something they usually did.

Blonde hair, dark eyebrows. Huh, Ignis was right. Even his eye contacts are green. What a guy.

“Uhm, excuse me… who are you?” he croaks, and Blonde Guy snickers. 

The girl laughs embarrassed though and finally frees his arm. Part of him mourns the loss. “Cater Ferrum,” she says extending her hand “I wanted to greet you as a fellow commoner in the Crownsguard training class. You’ll be joining us tomorrow, right?”

Prompto swallows, the wariness leaving in an instant. There are more people like him in the Crownsguard? True, Ignis had said there is no social restriction on who could apply, but all the people he had seen so far were nobles. To know there would be another one…!

“Yeah. Prompto Argentum. I’ll do my best!” He shakes her offered hand giddy and smiling, her grip is firm and warm, and she smiles back.

“The name’s Nine Altum.” Blond Guy says, slouching forward and rising up a fist. Prompto returns it cheerfully. “We are the plebeians here, don’t sweat it, the nobles don’t bite. Well, Sice _does_ and it’s not pretty, but as long as you don’t chicken out you’ll be fine” he explains with a wink.

“Who is Sice?” he asks with trepidation, the name somewhat familiar.

“You’ll meet her tomorrow, she’s _wild,_ ” Cater explains as a matter of fact, and Prompto swallows again. When someone says wild, he remembers that time he went camping with Noct and Gladio, and the big guy wrestled a deer to the ground.

Hopefully he didn’t look like a tasty deer.

“You training right now?” Nine asks, cocking his head to look at the weights.

“I’ve just started, did a warm up first,” he explains, but the other just looks away.

“Nah those are rookie numbers!” Nine complains, taking out the cord and putting it two slots down to 80. “That’s much better! C’mon do it, Cater can do 90!”

That makes him pause, looking back at the girl with dread. Cater smiles beatifically, but he’s seen enough horror movies to know better than to fall for it.

“He’s joking of course!” Cater laughs it off, a hand on her hips “I do 120. We were just finishing warming up, wanna do a spar? I know you still haven’t chosen a weapon, but your reflexes are lit,” she proposes giving him the finger guns.

Now he can see the taut biceps beneath her skin. Pure iron.

Maybe he should reconsider; even his people were pretty scary. Was this what the training for Crownsguard made you?

 

(His first official Crownsguard training goes well. He meets new people, even some he’s already done some workouts with none the wiser.

Luckily, his desire for gun isn’t laughed at much. It is still considered unseemly given Lucis’ pride in the blade, but guns were traditional to some noble houses outside Insomnia. Apparently, the distaste came from their traditional use. Guns were to settle duels of honor between children. For everything else, including protection, tradition demanded the use of blade.

That is not to say there weren’t nobles who also wanted to have long-range weapons. Like Trey Sagitta and King Strepitus, for example. Trey still was very adamant about the virtues of using a bow, but in the face of King’s cold practicality about gun and Cater’s enthusiasm there was nothing he could do –even if technically, guns were prohibited in Insomnia.

“Only For the general public!” Cater had insisted, “granted, having the government in monopoly of one weapon isn’t exactly a good thing –but well, at least this ought to cheer civilians into entering the service of the crown, at least in the spirit of protecting their families.”

King hadn’t been too much keen on the idea, and Queen Harpe had balked about the notion saying that the desire to enter the armed service to the Crown should be greater than just wanting to have a gun. But Prompto understood.

Other teammates didn’t have that much of an opinion about the use of guns. Cinque Attolli in particular had the motto “if it works, why bother on the method? What difference does it make if the enemy has its head blown up, or chopped down?”

He also meets Sice Elshett and learns Ignis fights her on the regular. _Wins_ against her on the regular too –not that he expected any less from his friend, because he’s amazing. _But_. It goes to show their differences. He couldn’t even scratch her.

He still has a long way to go before he can be of support to Ignis and their goal. Heck, the way he is still, he is not even going to help Noct on the regular. If he can’t go out in the battlefield yet, he has to earn as much experience as he can right now to be prepared.)

 

* * *

 

Ignis sighs contently in his study, reclining a little on his chair. He ignores the clock on the wall and instead procures once again the final draft of today’s session in the noble council. It is not often he attends them –he’s usually assisting Noctis- but the voting on this topic in particular had his interest ever since Lady Leuem cornered him in a corridor.

(Gladio had traded places for the day, so he didn’t worry about the Prince being left unattended. It still sits badly on him though. He did eschew his duties to the crown for a personal interest. He will more than make up for this, he promises to himself.)

Against all prognostics, the council meeting didn’t end in disaster. Or rather, it was headed that way until Baron Ornare had taken the step and inspired all nobles, one by one to do the right thing and sink the tax tariffs proposal.

Ignis is still surprised how a compelling speech could sway votes to terminate the tariff bill. He’d attended the council meeting as a witness with voice and without vote. For even as a noble and the representative of his house his station was too tied with Noctis. He had gained voice once he’d become of age, but he remained without vote until Noctis became King.

(And if the prophecy goes the way it is supposed to, he’d rather not be able to ever vote in his entire life if it meant Noctis would live)

Baron Ace Ornare, at seventeen had cowed and steered the meeting away from imposing taxes and, while it wasn’t enough to lower them, reject the proposition with prejudice. Ignis had done his part in procuring just the number of votes to demerit the bill, but the Baron’s speech was the nail in the coffin.

He’d said as much to the young noble after the session was adjourned –it would do good to fortify the confidence of bright young men, and as far as alliances went, the Barony near the western Wall wasn’t bad.

Ignis opens the drawer, intending to shelve the papers, and his old notebook catches his eyes. He retrieves it with little hesitation, his mood still uplifted. Maybe a change of mood was necessary in order to analyze the prophecy.

In games, it was easier to fall for a trick or be deceived if presented in plain sight. Tricks, the true clever ones, hid their details in plain sight in a way that would be overlooked in a broad glance.

This Prophecy should not be any different. In fact, there were fables where humans got the upper hand against a fantastical evil by using loopholes or finding weaknesses in the spell and broke them. Ignis crosses his arms and Legs, mildly irritated at his oversight. He’d been too caught up on Prompto’s uniqueness and what the flowers could mean, by his nightmares and the unrest they brought, that he had forgotten to analyze the text with another set of eyes.

Now that the major legislative term was over, he’s going to rectify it.

He reads the passage slowly, passing a finger on each word.

_Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own. The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To usher in Dawn's Light will cost the life of the Chosen._

There had been something on the words that had first caught his attention, and then he was going rounds and rounds with how it could be Noctis’ fate. It was Noctis’ fate, of that he was sure, and at this point he trust the veracity of each word. There is something instinctive on his displeasure with each letter of these sentences and both Clarus and his grandfather had been firm on trusting his instincts whenever a situation had him wary.

It goes beyond logical. So much as to make him desist in trying to read it again. He’d even changed notebooks in effort to avoid that page. He’s not about to overlook or doubt this.

Ignis shakes his head. No need on growing frustrated on his shortcoming. Now, with a clearer head, and distance he could try to look for clues, for little tricks in the wording, between the sentences.

Ignis leans back interlacing his fingers, slowly digesting the words.

What is the broad message?

The Chosen King would die at the throne to bring Dawn’s light.

So a throne was an important location, Sunlight was a reward, and Noct was the important subject as the Chosen King...

He frowns and stops.

Wait.

No.

Notebook in hand, he rereads the first paragraph again, and then the next few lines, once, twice and places the book back on the table. Drumming fingers on the cover.

There is no Chosen King. Only “Chosen” and “King of Kings”.

But they aren't the same are they?

In fact, by the wording, the two might not be related at all.

He snorts perplexed at this finding. Two people, this prophecy could be referring to two people –and he’d been too obfuscated with Noctis’ end that he’d overlooked such a detail.

There are two people –if not why make the distinction in the Prophecy? He feels warm all over, and somehow he feel it is _right_.

Worded carefully, and in plain sight. A prophecy of death where One would die, and The Other would obtain the power (Sunlight?) to banish darkness. Right in front of his face.

The victory is short lived however. This breakthrough only brings more questions. If there are two, who is Noctis? The King? The Chosen?

_Many sacrificed all for the King, so must the King sacrifice himself for all._

_Set forth and gather strength, O Chosen. The fate of this world falls to the King of Kings, His Providence consecrated in the divine Light of the Crystal. So it is ordained_

The first sentence denotes that the King would also have to make a sacrifice –but nowhere does it indicate the toll will be his life. In fact, the only established price is the life of the chosen. The blood price that must happen for the King of Kings to obtain the fabled power.

There is many a thing a King can sacrifice aside from his life. Fables were colorful and imaginative in that regard as well: the loss of their voice, their sight, the one they love. The possibilities are endless.

If he is correct and this prophecy refers to two, then everything changes. A King that will change the fate of the world (and what are the stakes? What ought he change? Why?), and a Chosen one that ought to gather strength and forfeit their life.

Ignis stops drumming his fingers with a final note.

The passage he copied is insufficient for trying to find any other contextual clues. There was a sacrifice for the King, but only the chosen would lose their lives. Maybe even his hunch might be wrong. He should have copied the whole page. At least the passage on its entirety. It is long due he revised that dastardly book again, and he could take up the opportunity of having Prompto consulting it too.

If he couldn’t take it home, at least he would transcribe the whole text and not just the last paragraph.

 

* * *

 

Ignis enters the Royal Library, steps confident as he threads the deserted foyer to the restricted wing. While the library closes later than all the others in Insomnia do, not many frequented it at this hour. A fact he had a habit to exploit in the past.

It was no different this time. Curiously enough, not even the receptionist was there -not that he expected the professional greeting from the man. Perhaps he was on a bathroom break, the shift at this hour more lax as the traffic dwindled.

He was alone for the time being and that suited him just fine... except for the tiny mop of blond hair barely visible over the small fortress of volumes on the table of the study room near the Restricted Wing's entrance. Ignis blinks. 

“Prompto?” He asks, and winces at how his voice echoes in the empty hall of the library. Prompto rises his head and smiles, eyes lighting up, once he sees him, and waves with one hand as he approaches.

“Hi Ignis!” he greets, voice low enough that Ignis has to lean a bit to hear it “Is it that late? Ace said the council meeting would take the whole day.” He continues and then coughs, busying himself with closing the book, he was reading and adding hastily “Not that I was keeping tabs on you it’s just –Ace was very gung-ho about making the speech right and....”

“Why are you here?” Ignis asks instead. If his calculation were correct, the last of the training rounds ended twenty minutes ago.

“Oh. You see, King told me there was a gun record in the royal library. Cater had studied it before and said there were many interesting guns and well, why not start early right?” He says, shrugging at bit at the last part. “Guns in real life are different than videogames –oh and you should see the records! There are guns with _magic bullets!_ How awesome is that?”

“There is nothing wrong in familiarizing with your weapon of choice” he assures. From what he’s gathered, the blond is nothing remarkable with the sword and knife, but that is fine. The first month of the Trials phase is to have trainees accustomed to the basic weapons commonly found in the Citadel. The second month trainees would choose their weapon of preference and train with them. Even those like Sice and Cinque who already had their weapons of choice had to train with small swords, and three types of knives.

Ignis had excelled at those and saw no need to choose for another. Prompto would probably go for a ranged weapon; his quick eye-hand coordination response was flawless.

Prompto beams and Ignis gets an Idea. While at first he had thought to call the blond, he hadn’t wanted to intrude on his schedule, especially if he was working overtime. But this coincidence could be advantageous.

“I will do a research in the private gallery,” he says after a moment. “Would you like to accompany me?”

He knows his proposal was a bit risky, but a month or so in the Crownsguard regular training, Prompto has enough footholds to be inside the Royal library and has been there before for some of his strategizing classes. He’s still not cleared for the restricted wing, but that’s why Ignis is there.

Another month or so and he will undergo the Awakening Ceremony. Afterwards the restricted wing of the Royal Library will be open for him at any hour.

Prompto nods, gathering the heavy tomes. “Lemme take these books back to the shelf and lead the way!” he whispers, and there is a tilt of impishness in his tone.

 Ignis follows, after bargaining with the blond for a few of the books. They are heavy but thorough, and their short trek to the respective shelves is filled with trivia about guns and what Prompto believes should be his main. He has no particular interest in guns aside from knowing how to unarm any opponent who wields one, but Prompto’s interest is infectious.

Ignis cannot help but notice there is a new readiness in his walk; the back is straighter, the steps falling in line with more ease. It is still cheerful, but it is now a mantle that hides the purpose of his movements. Prompto will only grow onto it as he undergoes the Crownsguard training. He wonders for a moment how will he move once he graduates. Will he use his genuine cheer and charm as a cloak to be unassuming, or will he continue to be friendly regardless of the lethality he is now capable to dish out?

Something is amiss though. There is a patch on his right cheek. Ignis narrows his eyes, blood warming rapidly after noticing it. Faces are delicate, and a patch means more than just a hit.

“Prompto, what happened?” he asks, mind going overdrive on all the possible reasons as to why he would have a wound there. All of them festering his displeasure.

The blond just blinks. “Ah this?” he guesses, touching the patch lightly. “Nothing really, a mishap at training. Jack just wanted to make extra sure everything was fine”

“Mishap?” he continues, skin itching as he remembers his own episodes of Sanctioned Hostility.

“I stepped wrongly during stage combat.” Prompto explains tone light and genuine. “Jack’s really good with the katana and nicked my cheek. Hence…” he explained, gesturing the patch on his face. Ignis frowns. Certainly, if it were truly bad, Noctis would have risen a ruckus. But a face injury is delicate, Gladio is a prime example, and right there…

“May I?” he asks before he can even control himself. He doesn’t want to doubt Prompto, but having the blond admit something is wrong with him is like pulling teeth. Those blue violet eyes look away from a moment and then nods with a pout, angling his covered cheek towards him.

His touch is light, and he focuses on any micro expressions of discomfort. There is none. The fire subsides until it is just a warm whisper and grows silent when the patch reveals clean healthy skin. Mishaps during training happen. He had been in the receiving end of several, a few with ill intentions, but he pulled through them anyway.

Prompto could do the same. He is strong.

Something shiny catches his eye, and he looks up a bit to see a hairpin fastened in blonde hair. He raises an eyebrow at it. It is girly, and yet it makes Prompto look somewhat fetching despite the patch on his cheek.

Prompto notices and flushes a little “Ah this… Cater gave it to me. She saw I was having problems today, and she… well, as a fellow commoner in the Crownsguard…”

“Perhaps you should invest on a haircut” he interjects testily, and then falls silent. Confused as to where that spike of thorny displeasure came from.

Prompto deflates a little, and then mumbles something about wanting to grow his bangs a bit more to have room for styling with gel. Guilt sits like a stone on his stomach.

None of this is Prompto’s fault. Ignis is no one to tell him what to do or not with his hair, or when or not to use girly hairpins, if he wants long –Ignis blinks in understanding. Long hair. Of course. If Prompto cuts his hair, the nightmare can be postponed.

The hairpin is just a reminder of their time running out.

“My apologies,” he says quietly, searching for his eyes. “It was out of order. You would look good,” he adds, and Prompto nods, glowing a little.

“Now come” he motions, pushing the small lock on the door to the private wing and sliding inside.

Ignis knows this route, has used times in the past when Noctis wanted a weird bedtime story, or when he wanted to read more of a certain topic and had been previously held up by nobles. He’d learned to be quiet, and that lights on the library were turned on even in the middle of the night.

As long as they are quiet, everything will sail smoothly. Prompto understands it, and follows sedately a step behind him, eyes roaming on the rows and rows of books.

The private wing of the Citadel Library is different from the rest. While the general library boasts three floors and open spaces with shelves decking walls and halls, this wing is one long corridor traversing a circle. In the middle, there is a round space of study and bordering it and the corridor are the two story shelves of books placed next to each other until one side reached the wall and the other the round space for study.

According to the blond, there are no Flowers in the Citadel, but it is obvious how easily enamored he is with fine details of the moving stairs of each shelf and its metalwork when others would just walk by.

A breath of fresh air.

“You’ll have access to this side of the library when you graduate.” He whispers, slowing down to match the blond’s steps. Prompto looks up surprised “you have latent magic. A gravity core is very rare, but there must be books on how to harness it”

“Then why going now?” he whispers, confused.

Why, indeed. He needs to find the book, write down the whole passage if possible, but why invite Prompto in this search when he could just present the transcriptions later? True they are in a team, and yet… well, he owes Prompto this.

“There is a particular book I want to show you, and a theory I must confirm,” he explains, gaze meaningful and before him, Prompto’s face grows from confused to grim. 

He’s ashamed to admit he hadn’t wanted to inquire further into the book. He’d had deep growling in aversion at the idea of even reading those words from the book again. He however knows exactly the isle he found it.

Prompto would frequent these aisles too in due time. Maybe he could use this little excursion for guidance on where to look. The blond seems to soak up the knowledge quite well, and it is an interesting conversation about the topics in this library wing as they make their way to the last shelf of Magic Manipulation – Advanced Uses.

Ignis falls silent, a finger brushing the book tomes. He knows all the titles of this row, studied them years ago while taking control of his fire. Had practically devoured the texts in a fortnight trying to validate his empirical control over his core and then trying to find ways to harness and model it to something effective and useful.

All the tomes are there, in perfect order, right at the edge of the self. All except for that one book.

It’s not there.

“Ignis?” Prompto whispers behind him, leaning forward.

“The book’s gone,” he admits, apprehensive. None of the books in this library is for external loaning. None. Where had it been taken? Was it Stolen? Misplaced?

“How?!” Prompto whispers furiously, tiptoeing and leaning over. He’s about to say something more when they hear the faint creak of the entrance door. Prompto widens his eyes and Ignis takes his shoulders and makes a gesture to be quiet. Whomever entered the door would hear any other sound they made.  

Not to mention, they were trapped.

The library wing only had one way of access. The rows of the main aisle go right to the wall. Ignis had gleaned a few years ago it was measure against theft. Placing the rows like this, where someone at the center could look at all the aisles and offered no place to hide.

Were he alone, there was no issue. But he’d taken Prompto.

He’s measuring the different ways he can scurry the blond away, or excuse his presence when Prompto puts a finger on his lips to be quiet. Mystified, Ignis can only stare as Prompto looks back to the isle between the book rows, looks back to him pointedly, and then nods to the floor. Ignis swallows, getting the message loud and clear, and having no faster strategy, sits down.

Prompto moves his hand, telling him to lay down. Make it believable, that raised eyebrow conveys, and Ignis complies, crossing his arms. The blond just shrugs, kneels slowly and then looks at him in askance on how to proceed. This is ridiculous. The steps are growing near, and they are growing out of options.

The idea has its credentials too. There are studies about how the sense of decorum in some people will force them to avert their eyes from a scene they deem compromising, and how in their mortification they will pass up critical details.

Ignis nods once. Above him, Prompto settles on his knees comfortably straddling him with minimal touch. Ignis is appreciative of that direction. It is not that he’s never had his casual romp, but he’s a staunch advocate of a sense of decorum and privacy. That’s what he prefers. Prompto’s frame is smaller, but like this, he would be hidden as best as he could given the entire situation.

It’s not a terrible sight either. Objectively, Prompto is unconventionally attractive. His looks exotic enough to turn heads in Insomnia, and now that he’s aiming to look coy Ignis knows the other has the cards to play them favorably. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth. While his cheer is endearing, Prompto would need a bit more of confidence to successfully rail in a tail.

His form is impeccable for someone who probably had no previous experience.

Then again, the blond gives him the vibe of commitment.

Ignis uncrosses his arms, slow and deliberate and raises an eyebrow in lieu of a question. They have to make it believable. Part of him wonders slyly how further he can push. There is a certain thrill he tries his best to ignore, and has to clamp down a smirk when Prompto shrugs.

There is still a lot his companion has to learn. But this had the chance to be educational. Probably. In here, there would be no sensibilities trampled or expectations disappointed. Determined, Ignis raises a hand with purpose tugging on the first button of Prompto’s buttoned blazer until the blond leans a bit forward, curious and confused.

Ignis smiles, fingers following down each button. The last button of a blazer should never be buttoned, and he makes a mental note to tell Prompto after they leave. For now, he focus on taking his time to unbutton one by one until Ignis could see enough of the partially tucked shirt underneath. He’s lean, no longer bony. Training has filled him nicely.

Above him Prompto swallows, violet eyes study him as he brushes with a finger over the edge of his pants, the faint corner of his hipbones, and over his jacket in a slow exploratory caress. The blond closes his eyes for a second, and Ignis can feel the faint trembles underneath his fingertips even when the blond deflates a little. That’s all he needs to take hold of Prompto’s hips over the jacket.

 _Believable_ , he mouths in challenge and squeezes. A reminder of what Prompto ought to do to him as well.

The blond slowly leans forward after a moment of hesitation, one hand spread confidently on the floor next to his face and the other lightly placed on his shoulder. Like this, his blond hair slides forward, one bang profiling his face while the other is kept contained by the hairpin.

He detests it he concludes. Had his hands been otherwise unoccupied, he would take it off; make it a compelling excuse in _making it believable_. But the steps are growing closer, and Prompto is leaning in. Ignis can feel his shoulder blades dip under his jacket. He’s at loss for a moment, should his hands go upward push the blond further, or continue at his sides?

He wants to ask what the blond is comfortable with but those blue violet eyes leave him breathless. When had this happened? This close he can count each eyelash, notice there are no imperfection on his brown eyeliner. It follows his eyes, play up their curious shape. When he blinks, Ignis swears those blond eyelashes are brushing his skin.

He swallows. This idea is terrible, but they might pull off it enough to make it _believable_.

Ignis unbuttons the last of Prompto’s jacket with one hand and, using what he knows from his rare forays, ventures his hands underneath it. Prompto’s skin is cool through the fabric of his shirt, and the underside of the jacket isn’t warm enough. It is true that Prompto has a slower heart rate and lower blood pressure than average… but to feel so cool and not notice? Then again, his temperature has always been a bit higher than average. Maybe Prompto isn’t cold; it’s just a mirage from the contrasting temperatures.

The muscles of his back are smooth and firm and with a quick slide of his hand, he feels the firmness of his stomach and the muscles there. Above him, Prompto tenses startled, and Ignis stops.

However, there is no clue of discomfort on his face. Instead, Prompto looks apologetic, and biting his lips lightly looks at him questioning. Ignis nods. Prompto gives him a quick smile and closes his eyes. In his periphery, Ignis can see one pale hand making its way to divest his shoulder, fingers sliding underneath his jacket, and closes his eyes at the cool sensation as those fingers expand and cover shy and explorative.

Ignis hums quietly. It was hard to believe this was the same person who suggested this form of distraction.

When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with a mix of wonder and curiosity in those violet eyes. Curiosity that is reciprocated. This is different, and somewhere in a corner of his mind, he wonders if perhaps this isn’t pretend. If it shouldn’t.

The train of thought leaves him once he hears footsteps approaching.

And Prompto angles his body just so, to rise up smoothly when the steps stop right behind them at the entrance of the isle.

 

* * *

 

Prompto has the plan of course. He’s seen this happen in the movies enough. He’s joked about it with Noctis too. Someone comes to investigate something and realizes he’s interrupting a _thing_ , then immediately apologizes and goes the other way.

So maybe he didn’t realize the intensity of the logistics, but well no harm was being done, right? He’s ready. He knows what he’ll say, something confident and in the lines of, _We’re busy, if you could…?_

He however, never accounted for this.

“Trainee Argentum, Ignis Scientia.” Someone calls, strong and displeased, with a voice he knows too well from following his stern orders these last few weeks.

Prompto’s soul leaves his body taking all the confident plans with it. Good-bye. Here’s the place he dies.

Prompto Argentum, the fool that tried a movie trick and was found by the Marshall. Rest in pieces.

He rises up quickly, like a bedspring, almost sitting on Ignis, and looks at the Marshal from over his shoulder, panic bubbling under his skin. “This is not what it looks like!”

“And how does this look like, trainee?” The Marshal questions, eyes narrowing and taking a step forward. There is an inflection in his voice that could mean either _I’m incredibly disappointed_ or _I will let you put the rope around your neck for amusement and then push you_.

If Astrals were merciful, they would strike him down then and there –but as noted for a few good months now, they are Assholes. Maybe he could spontaneously combust? That sounds achievable, but spontaneously combustion would also burn Ignis. Shit, this was a terrible idea. He should stop touching Ignis, for starters, and right now.

“Just well… I mean…” he tries not to flail, but it’s not working and why is his voice breaking?! No Prompto, steady voice, steady voice! “We were looking for a… book.”

No wait. He shouldn’t have said that. The goal for this compromising position was to _cover_ the fact that they were searching for a book. Damned Astrals why was it so hard to _focus_?!

Underneath him, Ignis tenses, he can feel those warm fingers on his hips widen their grip. Behind them Cor was staring like death incarnate. Prompto could already see terrible things for his training menu in the upcoming _years_. 

“We were looking for books about magic…?” he tries again and tries not to wince at how shy his voice sounds.

“Is that a question?” The stare intensified, from suspicious to suspicious and _unamused_.

Prompto’s internal mantra is now a continuous scream of despair.

“Yes magic. Totally, definitely. Magic manipulation!” oh hey, he finally let go of Ignis shoulder and his voice was back to normal levels! Good thing Prompto! Now if you could separate your legs a bit more so that _your knees aren’t touching Ignis_ that would be great!

“…and Scientia here offered counsel on this _magic_ manipulation.” Cor elaborates, unamused and not believing a single thing.

“Prompto has a manifestation of magic in the form of gravity.” Ignis intercedes, voice calm and controlled, so unlike his terrible attempts at explanation. He is kinda jealous but mostly glad. Prompto is acutely aware of those elegant hands still on his hips, of the heat sipping through his clothes and touching his skin –and did their grip turn tighter? By the Six, he should stop thinking about that right now. This definitely not the time. It’ll never be.

It takes Prompto an embarrassing long moment to catch the accidental innuendo from Ignis and then his face burns up to his ear tips. Who knew that was possible to feel the ear tips without touching them? An amazing discovery.

Cor continues to stare, eyes narrowed and Prompto knows that look from mama Adler when she found out he gave his food to the stray kitties and doggies in the Sparrow Head district.

“Follow me.” he orders finally, and Prompto stands up as fast as he can, tying not to think too much on how he had to push his hands on Ignis shoulders again to actually stand, or how Ignis’ hand felt, warm and encompassing around his fingers, as he pulled the other up. “This is out of library hours. Trainee Argentum may I need to remind you about rules?”

Those words are enough to wash away the warmth with ice. “No sir.”

“You stay here,” the Marshall begins again once they are a few good corridors away from the Library “Scientia come with me”

Finally, alone, Prompto crouches and screams, his knees muffling the sound. This was a disaster. No event he remembers could be as embarrassing, and he’s sure, nothing ever would triumph over it. Never. He’ll have to apologize to Ignis when he comes back from talking to the Marshall…

Prompto swallows. The detail sits heavy in his gut. Does the Marshall have the power to relieve Ignis from his duties? Or maybe not him, but he could report this and– 

What if Ignis loses his job because of this?! They knew it was risky; Prompto still has no clearance for going to this part of the library. It was very impulsive and maybe they should have waited. Maybe Prompto shouldn’t have jumped at his offer; he would have been a bit of a voice of reason. Ignis loves his duties. Prompto would never forgive himself if he were fired because of this. This stupid idea. He should never believe movies work in real life.

He buttons up his jacket and shivers when the warmth of Ignis hands touch him again. He huffs mussing his hair, trying to avoid those thoughts, but it is not enough.

Once he’s made aware of it, he feels how one of his hands is warm and the other is cold. How when he joins them, the contrast in temperature is real.

No!

He shakes his head furiously, eyes shut to no avail. Instead, the green of Ignis eyes comes through, vibrant, sly, and enchanting…

_Who said anything about Ignis?_

Noct’s voice come through, crystal clear and Prompto groans.

Ignis might lose his job. This is not the time to think weird things.

 

* * *

 

Cor closes the door behind him and doesn’t speak a single word for at least five minutes. It’s a basic and blatant intimidation tactic, and Ignis has grown used to them and how to ignore them. It doesn’t shake him –no matter how embarrassed and confused he is.

It’s different of course, the one before him is not a noble, or a staff officer. Ignis has read the reports, knows Cor Leonis’ achievements by heart. He has seen the Marshall train the new Crownsguard up close –he never had the pleasure to be under his training course, and part of him is actually _glad_. He is over forty, but his age never shows in battle.

He is realizing one thing is to know about those accomplishments, and another is to have that steel gaze studying him, dissecting everything he is and evaluating if he is a threat. It is unsettling. _This_ is the Marshall of the Crownsguard. The man who was active to the service of the King at thirteen.

“Trainee Argentum has potential.” He begins briskly and commanding. Ignis idly notices this is the most he’s heard the Marshall talk in a single day. “I don’t want him tangled up in any scandal that jeopardizes it.”

That grabs his attention. “I assure you sir we were not...”

“He is a Trainee, Scientia. I know enough about nobility sensibility nonsense.”

He must dissuade this misunderstanding immediately. During their walk, he’s already devised an excuse that can both cover their doings in the library, and what the Marshall saw when he found them. But his mind too caught up with Prompto’s blunder actually _working_ to formulate it. He had been lost in the memory of that cool hand on his shoulder; of the contours and firmness he could feel as he unfastened the jacket; of the smooth slide of his hands over the dip of his lower back, skin smooth with only a piece of fabric between them. He’s momentarily lost in the memory of those beautiful eyes – violet with a speck of blue- so close and unguarded, to catch on the implications it could have being found like that.

It still does though. Ignis has played this game for almost a decade now, and clenches a fist when it dawns. He himself is far from untouchable but he can brush it off.  Prompto is the truly vulnerable. This could easily get him out of his training on grounds of nepotism alone.

Not that nepotism was a stranger to the court and nobility. But they all functioned by appearances and pretenses.

“Understood.” He replies belatedly. Yet there must be something in his face because Cor’s disposition changes from lecturing to neutral, which for the Marshall is as close to friendly as he’ll ever get. It’s a subtle thing, the shift of his jaw, a loosening of the tightness around his eyes, a shift in the weight of his stance; but Ignis can see it and accepts it for the truce it is.

“You are good kids. But don’t mess with my trainee.” He declares.

The message is clear. _You both can do whatever you want after he graduates_.

Ignis nods, back straight. “Yes sir”

The Marshall nods once and points to the door with his head. “Go to him.” 

 

(Cor massages his temple right after Ignis closes the door.

He can already hear Regis’ chuckles and see Clarus’ smirk as he tuts _teenagers Cor, I told you it was a rebellious age. You should have seen this coming! That Scientia boy has a preference for blondes, and your boy a spot for him._

Regis, the devil, would bring one of the more embarrassing stories of their journey together to lighten up his mood. _At least they chose a private and closed off place. Do you remember Cor, that time you went to that weapon store in Lestallum…?_

Those were the risks of travelling with older people during the cusp of his teenage hood: they were supportive of any preference crisis, but would certainly use the material for opportune teasing.

He should at least look up for books about gravity manipulation. In the rare case they were being truthful.)

 

* * *

 

Prompto is waiting for him in the hallway, pacing from one side to the other and stilling so quickly when they see each other that Ignis marvels’ at the blond’s sense of balance.

“I’m sorry!” he flails those blue violet eyes wide and filled with worry. He winces when the hall echoes his voice. It is not an enough pause to intervene however. The blond threads on, voice lower, the halls echoing the murmur intangibly enough not to catch attention. “It was a stupid Idea, and honestly Ignis I am so sorry. This should not have happened. Please tell me you are ok. The Marshall didn’t do a thing to you, right?”

Now he’s the one thrown off balance.

Prompto is worried about _him_. This boy is so unaware of the world he is immersed in right now. It makes something inside him ache and burn. There is no doubt Prompto’s determination and devotion is unflinching and resolute as hardened steel, yet this softness and innocence…

The sensation of Prompto’s body under his fingers still tingles on his hands.

Ignis closes his eye, willing the memory away. “I was lightly chastised. Nothing more”

“So you’re ok?” and he knows the blond means more than the physical.

“Yes” he confirms and it earns him a bright smile. “You should worry more about yourself. I foresee the Marshall will become stricter in your training”

Prompto breathes a little and nods psyched up, “I can handle it!”

Ignis raises an eyebrow; “As long as you keep on _this_ side of the living” he says and resume their walking to the exit. It is quite late, and a quick look at his watch reminds him of the schedule of subways in Central Insomnia. Prompto had never called their night sessions short, but since the war with Niflheim worsened, taxis were not allowed in the radius of three kilometers from the Citadel’s gates.

The last station will close in ten if they don’t hurry, and it doesn’t sit well with him to let Prompto walk alone. It would feel something akin as a walk of shame.

“It has come to my attention that the last train to the station nearest to your home passed an hour ago.” Ignis states low enough as they walk. The Citadel halls have always been acoustic and at this hour, devoid of bustle, his voice carried.

“Huh? Yeah I usually walk back after we are done.” The blond replies nonchalantly and Ignis stops, it takes a few more steps before the blonde notices and turns around brows knitted in plain confusion.

“What’s the matter?” Prompto asks leaning forward a bit, hands on hips, those inquisitive blue eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.

“You _walk._ I infer it was the same before your training.” Ignis points out, befuddled. The crime rate in central Insomnia is low, but he knows where Prompto lives. Prudence and caution are to be exacted while walking alone at night through the colliding neighborhoods. Not to mention the sheer _distance_.

Prompto straightens again with ease that soon enough will become second nature. Ignis would feel glad about how the blond has taken to the training and the poise of a Crownsguard –as if he was born with it– if not for what Prompto asks next. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I assumed you took a cab.” It’s a sensible assumption, and Prompto should have known it already.

Instead, the blond staggers, face tight. He’s biting his lips and shakes minutely. It doesn’t work and Prompto dissolves in laughter shaking a hand to ward him off while he leans against the wall, one arm tightening around his belly as if he could stop the laughter from spilling.

There is no one in the corridor, but the laughter echoes accusingly.

If anything, Ignis detest to be made a fool.

“S– Sorry” is the mumbled apology once Prompto has calmed enough and is rubbing one eye. “But you _thought_ – holy high score heaven!”

“This is serious.” Ignis demurs sternly, crossing his arms and making a tally of all the instances where Prompto was hurt before joining the crowns guard training. Not many, yet again, he knows Prompto heals fast. Ignis can’t be sure.

“No, no. _This_ is serious to _you_. Just–” the blond stops for a moment flailing a little with his hands and does the little side glance Ignis has come to associate with Prompto trying to structure his ideas. “…like! Ignis that is the noblest thing you’ve ever said to this pleb. Do you know what a cab from here to my place would _cost_?”

“Mocking is unbecoming of you. I am concerned about your safety.” He insists both out of concern and irritated for being called out as insensitive. Surely, a cab could not cost as much as the blond is implying.

That makes the blond pause, those blue eyes glinting with something that isn’t mischief before glancing away. A hand scratches his nape idly, and Ignis remembers how that hand felt on his shoulder when he was pushed to the floor a scant hour ago.

“I know Ignis,” he comments with a kind smile. “And thank you. But don’t sweat it. I haven’t been mugged since I was thirteen.”

Ignis balks scandalized. “Thirteen–!“

“… and I jog to my house! Early morning exercise. Arrive, take a shower and bam! Sleep like a baby.” Prompto threads on cheerfully and thoughtless of the bomb he’s just dropped.

“This is a grave oversight.” Ignis says at last, aghast and reigning in the need to pull off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose. Prompto is being _genuine_ and he doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s done more miscalculations tonight than previously suspected.

He tries to imagine an eleven-year-old Prompto being mugged. Now that he pictures it, Prompto hadn’t said at which age it happened. Was it ten? Eight? _Four?!_

Ignis would offer him a ride if it that would not be the pinnacle of imprudence given their recent situation and the impression the Marshall now has of them.

“It’s not the end of the world Ignis.” Prompto shrugs.

“Be as it may. You will call me when you get home from now on.” He concedes for now and makes the mental note to search for the usual fares of cabs in Insomnia.

“You can stack a please there. Just sayin’” Prompto ribs.

“Do be so kind, Prompto.” He doesn’t exactly loom over the cheeky blond, but he will use whatever means available to get the point across.

“Y– yeah.” is the flustered reply “I will Ignis. Don’t worry.”

Ignis, of course, worries.

(He worries even more when, in his nightmares he can now discern the difference between Prompto's cool skin, and the coldness of a body bleeding out. How the black corrosion that eats him whole burns at the contact and yet the skin around it feels like ice.

He worries even more when the next day his uncle gives him a letter from grandfather inviting him for a cup of tea the next month.

Apparently, his indiscretions weren’t as unnoticed as he hoped)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took over 40k for something to finally happen! and it was fake! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧ 
> 
> Working titles for this chapter:  
> 1) Ignis dies a little inside, and Prompto does the same. Cor is too old for this -Clarus doesn't think so.  
> 2) Rest in Pieces Prompto. feat. the funeral of one (1) Ignis Scientia and the return of Cor's Suffering™
> 
> As for the last names of all the Class Zero introduced or alluded in this chapter:  
> Altum = High  
> Ferrum = Iron.  
> Strepitus = noise. Like the sound a gun makes while firing.  
> Sagitta = Arrow.  
> Attolli = uplift. So it is Cinque Uplifting (I wanted ditz, but there was no good translation)  
> Ornare = Deck of cards  
> (I am a dork. I'm sorry)
> 
> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: Noctis, Iris Amicitia, Cor (and with it, Clarus Amicitia, and Regis, and Cid, and Weskham) 


	11. Breakfast at the Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast has another meaning when Nobles are concerned.  
> Feat: Noctis doing a thing™ and is regretting everything.

 

A whole life of breakfasts in the Amicitia manor has taught Gladio better than to ask when his father has that _look_ during it. The look that says he’s cackling madly at some well-deserved shadenfreude.

People often forget that for all the decorum the station demands, his father owns a bike (seven in fact) and got tattooed at 15. Thrice. Age and formal clothes might have hidden that, but Gladio grew up with his father’s storytelling of his time outside the Wall. He knows more about the King and his retinue’s shenanigans outside than he would have liked –and the worst is that, if he ever told anyone, no one would believe it.

Iris, his adorable monster of a sister pays no attention and continues eating with gusto. She’s freshly showered from their morning spar, and maybe Gladio’s concern is less his father’s amusement and more the ache on his left shoulder. Iris had finally gotten him into a deadlock he couldn’t free himself easily. He’s eminently proud.

Then his father hums something cheery and light and Gladio freezes. That earns him a chuckle.

“At easy soldier,” he jokes. That is enough for his sister to raise an eyebrow and set the silverware on the plate, leaning overly interested. Iris is his baby sister, his adorable little princess but she’s scary. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” he continues, “The news won’t spread since it was Cor who found them. Those reckless youths.”

Gladio narrows his eyes puzzled. Cor? Congratulations? Reckless? “I don’t follow.”

The pitying look he’s awarded is unfair and uncalled for. Still his father humors him, “The other night, you friends had a tryst in the royal library.”

Gladio drops his fork and winces at the loud clatter.

What? It really doesn’t take much to put two and two together. While Gladio is good in comradery, there are few his father would call his friends, and by his words, none were the Prince. “No,” he says, somewhere between horrified and disbelieving, because if it is those two...

Prompto? Maybe. That he could see. But Ignis? A tryst in a public place? In the Citadel?!

It’s at this moment that Gladio remembers the adviser has a thing for blondes.

“They went on a museum date.” Iris quips tone innocent and smile beatific and Gladio hasn’t been fooled by that filthy lie since last year. She can supplex someone thrice her weight, with the same smile. He still wonders who taught this to his little sister, he would like to have some _words_. “On Ignis’ birthday.” She giggles.

His father blinks, surprised by the information and then chuckles and murmurs something along the lines of _the joys of fatherhood._ Gladio ignores the veiled message. He’s too engrossed anyhow with the revelation that Iris was _right_ to explain to his father that no, he’s still searching for the one and there is nothing wrong with being a romantic at heart. He’s barely still of age even!

Specs and blondie. In a romp. Found by Cor.

He smirks at the picture. Maybe Noct is already aware of it. Maybe this is the best opportunity to break the news. He’d be laughing hard enough to not get overly protective for either side.

 

* * *

 

“Do you know that eighteen is the age of consent in Insomnia?”

Of all the things Ignis expected when retrieving Noctis for his weekly early breakfast with the King this wasn’t something he’s even entertained.

He coughs pointedly, willing away the unexpected heat on his face, and centers himself. His mind meanwhile races on all the court Ladies Noctis had seen recently, or the crass nobles who might have had the gall to insinuate something.

“Fascinating.” He says at large. It could be Lady Harpe, though he isn’t sure. For one, his only lead would be the fact that of her desire to be Noct’s Crownsguard a few years ago. The last Lady Noctis had entertained in official capacity was Lady Catomidio and her daughter, Seven. The one Sice accidentally confessed to. Not a good lead either. “Is his Highness interested in the affairs of the flesh?”

“Aren’t you?” Noct says, blue eyes sharp. Ignis pauses, thoughts coming to halt so fast he thinks he became a statue.

Unbidden, Prompto’s cool skin comes to mind, the comfortable weight over him, the contrast in temperature, the physicality –and Ignis narrows his eyes a fraction, finally aware of the conversation between lines.

“I am afraid I don't follow your highness,” he says, voice even and professional while his mind goes fast on how could Noctis know. Who else had been there last night? Cor did report to the King –well he ought to when protocol demanded so, but for the King to have told his _son_? Ignis reviews the last meeting he had with the Monarch, trying to find any gives with no result.

Next to him Noctis shrugs “Gladio brought a book the other day,” he begins, and Ignis would be proud on his use of diplomacy and subterfuge if the Prince wasn’t using it against him. “A courtly romance, you know his type. And differently from the usual tropes, at the height of romance the Knight bid good night to the Lady of his Heart. _Because he followed the law of the King as much as the ones of the heart_ or something”

Ignis knows a reprimand when he hears it. Have it so tactfully worded just makes him itch. Makes him want to narrow his eyes. Makes him want to pry each layer of those words and find the meaning behind the obvious.

“Was that a test? Gladio’s favorites are filled with such quests in the game of love and desire,” he comments, poker face firmly set.

“Yes. The King was watching. Had his trusted knight failed, instead of a blessing, he would have witnessed the Lady of his Heart taken away in nuptials with the King.” Noctis’ answer is fast, but the stance is sure and Ignis stomach drops. 

He wonders if there is such a story in the first place. Not that it matters, the message clearer than an arrow striking true.

It doesn’t mean he’s pleased with it. Or with its implications.

Does Noctis fancy Prompto? Certainly, they are close, much closer than what friends ought to be. But Ignis can't judge it. Perhaps that closeness is the standard for people outside the nobility circles. He's reminded once again of his carelessness and ignorance of how is life for civilians and outside the constricting norms of noble life. Just as he was unaware of the cab fares in Insomnia.

He can't make an objective judgement of this.

(He ignores with prejudice the fission of displeasure that flares at the thought of Noctis fancying Prompto, and how it grows incisive at the thought of Prompto fancying Noctis)

“But times are different now. I think no one would mind if done with discretion,” his Prince says after a pause, a faint smile on his face, eyebrow raised towards him.

Ignis coughs, cheeks warm. Unsure in how to clear the misunderstanding.

“Be as it may, your Highness still has three months of waiting.” He reminds. This was not an information he wanted to have contextualized at the front of his mind. He wonders if maybe Noctis was also talking about himself. If so, this could spell disaster. “I would advice you to be patient, and employ this time in learning the amatory arts of protection and safe engaging.”

Noctis makes a face as he enters the car and Ignis feels partly mollified.

(It is not until he sees Noctis off in the Citadel, that he realized he ought to have dispelled all misgivings. Nothing of what Noctis believed was true –and yet he had missed the chance.

He’ll find the next opportune moment to clarify the whole misunderstanding.)

 

* * *

 

Prompto is resting on the grass after finishing the morning course. He’s not that tired after the fifteen laps around the Citadel and he relishes on the progress. Especially when Trey all but collapsed next to him, the poor guy.

His hands are cold now –blessedly back to normal-, but he couldn’t even sleep before. The ghost of Ignis warm hands made it impossible to concentrate in something else. Even after jogging to his place and taking a cold shower. It had been the _worst_.

And now, he still wasn’t sure if he was glad for its absence. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the warm touch and more to do with the situation? Ignis was gorgeous and he just realized that? Or was he just feeling guilty over the fiasco?

A good thing his body could move in autopilot. Otherwise, he’d be as tired as his mind was from running around in circles.

Next to him, Trey heaves again and Prompto blinks. A plan vaguely forms in his head. The noble is very knowledgeable about relationships and stuff. There is no one else bar Queen Harpe that has a good relationship with all the trainees –snooty nobles that think plebeians shouldn’t apply for the Crownsguard included. If anyone could be helpful in trying to make sense of the whole knot of feelings _things_ he’s had ever since the night at the Royal library it’s him. Well Nine could help too, but at least Trey won’t laugh at him first.

“Hey, may I ask you a question?” he calls softly but Trey perks right up. Granted it’s only his eyes and a nod, but Prompto will take what he can.

“I just...” he begins and then cough a little to give himself courage. Somehow wording it, _saying_ it just makes it all the more real and embarrassing. “I just realized a friend of mine is really, really hot…”

That is enough to have Trey sitting up, green eyes attentive, one hand inviting him to go on.

“Is that... is that normal?”

Trey doesn’t answer right away, and that gives him all the credibility when he says “Yeah, it happens all the time.” Then he’s wiggling his index finger, like an expert about to impart some trade secrets. “But it doesn’t have to mean anything. Not if you don't want to.”

Prompto nods, part relieved and part confused. He doesn’t have time to ask for a better explanation when Trey adds “Just to be clear. I don't want your fancy, Argentum.”

He splutters, red faced. “I could be talking about a girl you know!”

Trey’s skeptical stare is unwarranted. Anyone who knew about this would agree

“It could be one!” he insists, and if he’s a bit defensive sue him. (Or maybe not, he’s just barely staying financially afloat and can’t pay a decent lawyer)

Trey snorts, all un-noble like “Prompto, if it was a girl you wouldn't be able to speak about it.”

That of course only makes him argue more defensively. Well yeah Ignis _is_ a guy, but he resents the fact that someone would just assume he’s talking about a guy. He’s open to both thank you very much.

The conversation ends with Trey laughing it off. Just what he wanted to avoid with Nine.

The matter, of course, doesn’t end there. Because apparently he’s the new topic of interest and if he’s learned anything during his training with the regulars is that some nobles like to gossip while being _helpful to the plebes_.

"I've always found Sice hot," Seven confesses to him while he has her locked in a subjugation hold during mock combat. It is enough to break his concentration. The woman uses the chance to break free and in a swift movement, he's on the floor. "I just never realized it until she gave me a love letter." she continues, whispering on his ear "But now she's shy."

"She might be embarrassed," he counters, biting back a groan. Her hold is pure steel. It’s even worse than Cinque’s and he knows the only way to free himself is if he distracts her enough but his mind just draws blank at the moment.

"She is.” Seven agrees, tightening her hold and Prompto _wheezes_. “She tried to apologize but I wouldn't accept it."

“Why not?” he groans and pats the training mat in defeat.

Seven releases her hold and stretches before giving him a hand. “Because I like her and want her fierce and joyous under my hands after a match”

_Oh_

“So if the apology is accepted then there is nothing?” he asks, and tries to ignore the twinge of disappointment. What is there to be disappointed for? All of that was just a make believe, of course there is nothing.

“Yeah.” She confirms. “It’s happened before. You are just left with an impression because the situation was bizarre. But it’ll fade. It’s no real infatuation if you don’t let it”

“And if it doesn’t fade…!” Cinque says, bodily interrupting the conversation and loud as ever. All the trainees turn their way. Prompto wants to _die_. “Remember! All you have to do is kill all witnesses!”

Prompto doubts he’ll ever be able to nick the Immortal.

Cinque of course goes on, unconcerned of his meltdown. “Some of us are going to the breakfast hall. Do you want some?”

Prompto doesn’t know if she’s aware he can’t even pay for a croissant in the Citadel. Then again, that might be his perfect excuse; given the group today all the nobles might just round him up and try to be _helpful_. He’s touched they want to help, but he’s learned there is such a thing as unwanted help.

“Trainee Argentum. Come with me” Cor calls at that precise moment, and his feeble bits of relief shatter on the floor. Right, punishment time. He’d been a fool to believe he had at least one day of reprieve before he died.

“Yes sir!”

Goodbye thoughts of a nice breakfast with his fellow trainee mates.

 

(Queen Harpe looks at the retreating men before sharply turning around. Of course, this is how it would be. She will not give up without a fight, her aim to be the last master post of Prince Noctis still clear -but she's not obtuse enough as to ignore the tides. Prompto Argentum is a strong contender, and if Cor Leonis took him aside, then...

She wouldn't put it past the Prince to have pushed his friend forward the moment he got hold of the rumor of someone wanting the master post position. 

Cinque hums, walking to her, fingers laced behind her back, still as cheerful and absentminded as ever. "I wonder who the mysterious girlfriend could be."

King coughs something suspiciously sound like ‘Boy’, just as Deuce does the same, only her cough sounds like 'Scientia'.

Cinque blinks. "You sure it's not the Prince?"

Knowing when she's being addressed, Queen shakes her head. "Indeed. There is no doubt he meant Scientia". She had heard rumors of course, but even a blind could see it. She had seen them twice, the hushed discussions about art, and the visits to the Royal Galleries. Some could dismiss them as Ignis preparing a plebeian to the intricacies of the noble court. But nothing could excuse the closeness, the stolen glances, the synchronized steps.  

Cinque hums pleased, and slyly pesters Deuce for more details.

"I'm astonished you were straightforward." King says once the two girls are a few feet away.

Queen bristles "Pardon me?"

The youngest son of Earl Strepitus shakes his head, not glancing at her even once. "You could have let others think it was the Prince. A suspicion like that could take him out of the race."

She huffs, blood boiling at the mere insinuation. "I will not steep so low as to use such underhanded tactics. I have _honor_ _and pride_ in my blood. Moreover, the pressure test nears." she continues, pushing up her glasses. "If he is to be the last master post he will attain the title by his merits alone."

It would be wise to broaden her aims in case she doesn't make it.)

 

* * *

 

The first meeting he has with Prompto after the Library’s fiasco is four nights later. They have rolled out the map of Insomnia, trying futilely to make heads or tails with it and the pictures Prompto brought. But both are eminently distracted –or maybe it is just the awkward silence between them.

Maybe he should speak first? Clarify anything about that night and then move on? Ignis “About–”

“So,” Prompto interrupts and blanches immediately, closing his hand, looking away. Ignis wants to rub his eyelids, eminently frustrated with the whole situation, this lack of _something_ tonight.

“No please,” he tries, “go on.”

“N- no really you go ahead.” The blond denies, and Ignis sighs.

_This is going nowhere_

The blond tenses. “Our progress?”

Ignis freezes. Had he said that out loud?

“No. This” Ignis explains, gesturing themselves. Then adds hastily to avoid further misunderstandings, “and it is not your fault Prompto.”

In front of him, Prompto deflates, but Ignis takes it as a victory. Better to have him a bit mollified than tense. Ignis nods, and then takes the word –Prompto took the initiative with their strategy that night at the library, now he ought to take the lead and have them re focused. It was only fair.

“You wanted to say something, and I’ll listen,” Ignis begins, looking directly at Prompto even if all he wants is to look away and just leave the topic _die_. “But first, I want you to now that what happened in the Library was not your fault. I should have been aware of the risks, and not issued the invitation.”

Prompto swallows and nods. He looks away for a moment, and then looks back, shifting on the sofa. “You sure nothing happened?”

Ignis nods, “There was no repercussion, my responsibilities remain the same. I gather it was different on your end.”

“Well yeah. Cor did give me penalty course,” Prompto shrugs and Ignis remembers how nonchalantly the blond had commented about being mugged. Something tells him this is unusual –and he’s seen the mugging reports on Insomnia (they have increased), but also knows there is a percentage that aren’t denounced to the police. Short of asking a psychologist, Ignis can’t judge if that’s just a normal comping mechanism for the Lucian common folk, or if it isn’t. 

It doesn’t make it any heavier on his conscience. “My apologies.”

“Don’t be,” Prompto says quickly, and then pauses and blushes fiercely. Ignis blinks, and just before he can ask whether he’s embarrassed or something else, the blond continues hastily “I mean apologies accepted but seriously, better than expulsion from the program, no?”

Asking if the penalty is harsh would be rhetorical. So instead Ignis nods. “However, if there is anything I can assist you with, please do let me know”. It’s only fair, he reasons. The penalties would probably be something physical, but as an active participant of the fiasco, he should at least strive to make up for it.

“Thanks Ignis!” Prompto says smiling, and strangely relieved. Were the penalties that hard? Granted the Marshall had never trained him, but Clarus’ own regiment wasn’t exactly _soft_.

Prompto claps suddenly. “So! About the book! What’s the deal with it?”

Ignis blinks having a whiplash from the sudden change of mood. Back to business then. That topic is over, and the lightness in his gut surprises him. “I’m afraid to be as confused as you are. The book was there the last time I saw it.”

He did make Prompto lose his time. But this discovery is just sinister. Where did it go? 

“Did someone take it?” Prompto questions, and that’s his fist scenario. But then, _who?_ And most importantly, _How?_

“The security system in that wing is strict…” Ignis explains, and maybe he shouldn’t be telling straight security procedures to someone who is officially just a Crownsguard trainee, but they have already broken the seal concerning the integrity of the Royal Library. What is one more offense at this point? “None of the books have barcodes, but there is a microchip deposited in the in…” he stops.

“Ignis?”

“I don’t think I felt the chip.” He confesses, befuddled. It had been one of his games during his nightly visits to the library, to try to find the chip, but he doesn’t remember finding it on the book. Or had he and he just forgot?

Prompto perks right up. “So no chip? Then the book didn’t belong to the library?”

“Let’s not jump into conclusions,” he demurs. “The cover was a very thick leather. I didn’t have the time to corroborate.”

Prompto nods understandingly.

“There was something else I wanted to show you,” Ignis says after a while, in an attempt to dispel the mood, and approaches Prompto sitting next to him. He opens the notebook and after Prompto read the prophecy, Ignis explains about the theory of there being two people.

The discussion gets them through his cooking and dinner. By the time they are washing the dishes they have found nothing conclusive, but the mood is light.

There are several lead on who could be what, or what the payment the King of Kings could be –if it’s different from death or not. As the only one with access to the Royal library and all its wings, Ignis will revise any folktales while the blond continue taking the photographs of the Kings. 

Prompto is telling him about the new schedule he has with the Marshall ( _Monday Thursday and Friday, three hours each. It’s going to be hard!_ ) and while Ignis knows he should be taking this time to mentally organize their new schedule all he does is breach another topic. The one that had been crawling at the back of his mind ever since that morning with Noctis.

“Prompto,” he calls “Pardon my crassness but I ought to ask: do you fancy Prince Noctis?”

Prompto almost slips the plate on the floor. For a moment there is the frantic teamwork struggle to have the plate on air and then on hold. Only when it is firm between their hands Prompto ventures with a little squeak. “W- what?”

Not one to be deterred by shame or self-mortification, and with adrenaline still in his blood he barges on “Because if so, I ought to warn you about his Highness expected obligations of marriage and producing heirs”.

Unbidden, his grip on the plate tightens and it is only the blond’s steady hands that the plate isn’t flying again. The Prompto then takes it carefully and retrieves the towel from the counter. Only then Ignis realizes their hands were touching. Somehow the contrast is still there, but not as heavy as the impression of that night.  

“Ignis just what?” Prompto asks once the plate is entirely dried. “Noct is my friend, the first!” he explains, voice earnest and Ignis wants to believe there is nothing but platonic affection. “I don't have any feelings for him -not in that way anyway. Just -where did that come from?!”

The blond has never been a good liar –and he owes the other this much confidence. If he says he’s not fancying Noctis, he’ll believe his judgment.

(and blithely ignores how the fission fades, cooling with every word Prompto said.)

Perhaps his diligence and will to thwart the prophecy are borne out of genuine friendship and not the lengths a lover would do for their special one.

Once again he was going ahead, judging Prompto by his noble standards. In fact, the blond could suspect the same with Ignis himself. 

He sighs, taking the sponge “The closeness you had... My deepest apologies.”

“Does it seem it like that from the noble perspective?” Prompto asks, once they’ve settled back into their routine.

Ignis takes a moment to answer. A decade ago? Certainly, but now… now there were rumors of the common folk in the Crownsguard having friendly brunches and roping Trey and Cinque along for fun. “Not as much as you assume. I'd advice against doing anything. This is your relationship with Noctis –he would resent the crown if you were to stop being the friend he cherishes”

Prompto hunches a little, but not fast enough that Ignis can’t see the stark blush on his cheeks. Ah, he’d forgotten how Prompto was new and responsive to genuine compliments.

It has him pleased, and when the conversation flows again, they never touch the topic. It is easier to breathe. Maybe this was all just an impression, but they would be fine.

Prompto hadn’t acted out when their hands touched, and aside from a bit of awkwardness nothing was amiss. Aside of course from their inconclusive findings regarding the prophecy and the books whereabouts.

In fact, the only thing Prompto protested was when Ignis called for a cab after their session was over. His treat, of course. It would be remiss to impose on the blond –especially when this was an apology for not being able to help the other night.

“Please. I insist,” he says for the fifth time accompanying Prompto to the foyer. 

 

(The mood dies a little when he sees his uncle leaning against the door of his room on his way back. In the last few days, he’s been the recipient of multiple amused stare, ghost smirk with one eyebrow raised combination.

He wonders what exactly had his life become.

“Not a word,” he asks, and it’s reminiscent on that time he tried to bargain with his uncle to not tell his parents hat he left his lunch in the garden to feed the birds. The memory is enough to leave him touched and perhaps a bit ashamed on how childish he’s being.

His uncle only shakes his head. “He’s a good kid,” it’s all he says.

“He’s very bright,” he agrees and misses the exasperate eye roll from his Uncle.

“When you see him next, convey my gratitude for the warming pots. The heliconias love it,” he comments with a little nod and closes the door.

“Oh,” he adds sticking his head out. “Try to be more eloquent with grandfather Ignis!”)

 

* * *

 

The conservatory of the Stupeo-Scientia manor is fresh this morning. Ignis luxuriates on it mildly, as he deals the cards and hopes they can still have the windows open on his visit the next month. The morning breakfast has been pleasant, and so far they have been dancing around (and it is _they_ Ignis refuses to believe Grandfather isn’t away of the Graula in the room) while exchanges pleasantries and congratulatory words for the voting on the taxation law.

It is the strange sense of familiarity and alertness for the oncoming impact that had him lower his guard when the conversation truly starts

“You should have seen that move, my dear boy” grandfather scolds lightly, showing him the ten of hearts. It had previously been in his hand, and when Ignis looks down he doesn’t find it. Instead, there is an Ace of spades, which hinders his strategy. “I even used my burnt hand”

It has been years since he fell for a sleight of hand. He’d grown out of it at sixteen.

“My apologies grandfather,” Ignis bows a little. Slightly mortified by his obvious oversight. “It seems today my head is…”

“…lost? In blond hair I suppose.” Grandfather doesn’t exactly chuckle, but the glee is hidden beneath each syllable, and Ignis just stops.

He’s not exactly surprised that grandfather knows. In fact, he’s only relieved that just a few people at the Citadel do. Even if his Grandfather has been exiled, he knows better than to believe his ravine has dried up. After all, one doesn’t become the head of the Council at twenty and presided it for decades without taking back thing or two.

So instead, Ignis gives a silent apology to Prompto and then nods.

Grandfather does chuckle then, voice a bit rusty with age but there is goodwill on each beat. Ignis gets the sensation of a child about to be scolded. It had been so long since he had a father. In a way, Regis and Clarus could never fill that place no matter if their consultations and their advices were given in good grace. His Uncle is more like and older brother than a father.

He doesn’t know if he likes this development or not, but this is a new interaction with Grandfather. Something soft and precious and he will keep it with him –if only to allay the future mortification of breaching the topic about his indiscretions in the Royal Library.

Of course, because he _is_ Grandfather, it takes only a moment to go back to business. “Tell me about this boy.”

Ignis stops, leaving again the cards on the table. In front of him grandfather leans a little, faded green eyes sharp. Ignis takes a moment to study his words. “I assumed you already knew everything there was to know about him.” He comments carefully. Of course, his grandfather would know. He’d expected to be questioned on this ever since he received the letter of invitation for a tea afternoon at the Scientia estate.

It earns him a nod. Grandfather has never been ashamed or humble about his expertise “But that's of no importance of me. _You_ tell me about this boy with your own words. What you see with your own eyes? I'm curious.”

That leaves Ignis speechless. He’d been prepared to defend Prompto from his grandfather, but to have him interested in the blond? Yet again, not many people would think earning the interest of Astus Scientia was something good.

“Prompto is charismatic, willful, true to his word.” he begins, because even if it wasn’t necessary Ignis is unable to put bad word on Prompto. His flaws are interesting, but his determination and brightness is humbling. “Yet grandfather, if it is for the reports I must apologize. This is a misunderstanding”

“Oh spare me! Edge and Rydia may groan as much as they want, but don’t ever believe they were any better than you my boy.” He tuts taking the cards and scrambling the deck. “Your mother’s weapon of choice was a _whip_ and your father’s were _knives_. In fact, they might complain you weren’t doing enough.” 

Ignis doesn’t know whether to be reassured or horrified when his grandfather gives him a _look_. On one hand this means his grandfather had enough experience with this kind of lack in decorum to know how to handle it, on the other this means those actions are at least another family _tradition_.

“Even I!” he continues unheeding of Ignis’ mental breakdown. “There was a time I was called the Kingsguard killer. Ah, I was stalwart then…” he laughs whimsically, as if lost in a good memory, or many.

His grandfather married young to a Tenebraen noblewoman twenty years his senior. Now he’s sure he really, really doesn’t want to know how that came to pass.

“Should I suspect this to be the cause as to why the transgression was easily believed?” it is not his intention, but his voice comes out somewhere between shy and dismayed.

That earns him another _look_ , “Now, now don’t be cute and question the obvious.”

Ignis tries to reconcile the image of his parents using every sordid image he can think of with whips and knives (thank _you_ so much Gladio) for distraction and… it’s unexpectedly easy. His parents were poised and determined. Duty over blood, they taught. Yet when he takes time to analyze, they never said anything about _limitations_.

They had an impulsive streak too.

His mother’s hair was green –well as green as it was allowed in the noble council, but she had insisted again and again she could not be held responsible that the chlorine on her pool tinted her hair.

(It was no accident. He had seen his mother in the pool for five hours almost every day. Working, of course, _in the pool_.)

His father was a firm believer that children ought to learn how to handle knives from a young age. _Self defense is important no matter the age_ ¸ he explained while praising Ignis for having thrown a butter knife right on the mark¸ _and nobody expects you to attack with cutlery._ He had even brought leveled battle knives for a kid of five –and Ignis had seen pictures of him with them since he was a baby.

Mother had found it adorable. Father had promised that when he was seven he would teach him how to handle bombs. 

Never mind, it makes perfect sense.

“But now tell me.” Grandfather starts conversional, leaning forward those faded green eyes mischievous “Did you find what you risked a breach of security for?”

Ignis stills at those words, and then forcefully relaxes, muscle by muscle. It’s grandfather after all. Ignis doesn’t doubt both his parents and him used the same scandalous tactics to earn or hide something.

Family tradition –even if Ignis was not the one who had the idea.

Idly he wonders, not without a bit of trepidation, if grandfather would approve of Prompto.

He mentally shudders at the thought.

They should never meet. Grandfather would eat him alive.

“I’m afraid not” the answer is unexpectedly hard, Ignis has grown to avoid failure –for someone in his position, with his duties any failure would bring disastrous consequences. This time was just a stern talk with Cor, and Prompto would have a few more demands on his Crownsguard training.

It could have been worse. Prompto could have been expelled on grounds of Nepotism –or put Noctis on an uncomfortable position the moment he defends his friend. As for Ignis himself… a night tumble for the nobility is not unheard of, yet his position in Noctis’ life could be questioned.

“It is a book of delicate matters concerning Prince Noctis and the true hardships of the Lucis Caelum line.” Ignis elaborates unprompted, and his Grandfather entwines his fingers, rests his chin on them and stares, those faded green eyes unusually serious. It reminds him that, exile notwithstanding, his grandfather was loyal to a fault and advisor to the late King Mors. If he ignored the existence of this book, it would both interest him and pain him.

“I’m afraid if such a book came to light it would place the governing inheritance in jeopardy.” He continues, the realization hardening his voice. “I know Prompto and the lengths he would go to protect Prince Noctis. A devotion that is born not out of duty, but out of friendship and gratitude. Insofar that for about half a year we have studied together every inch of possible evidence to counter the possible risks. He has been nothing but diligent.”

“Which is why you suggested he joined the Crownsguard.” His grandfather concludes, sharply.

“He wanted to be a Glaive” Ignis corrects, “I only suggested the road that was more beneficial to our common goal. It also helps that Noctis would have another person he trusts in his capable retinue.”

His grandfather nods approvingly, and Ignis smiles vindicated.

“We were researching for clues on how to avoid such clauses, and if possible, to retrieve the book yet it was nowhere to be found.” He continues, with the same diligence as one gives to a report.

Grandfather narrows his eyes. “Nowhere?”

Ignis shakes his head. “No. We searched as thoroughly as possible before we were found out”

His grandfather leans back on his chair with a long sigh. Ignis wants to do the same, but just mentioning the fact that they were found out brings back the ghost of Prompto’s cool skin beneath his fingers.

“If this book has indeed information of sensitive nature,” grandfather begins, and Ignis will not bristle at the obvious conditional “it would be removed at the first sign of it being consulted.”

He accepts the admonishment with aplomb. He had feared that before, he had not been particularly careful in putting the book back in the shelf that one time. No reason of emotional distress would be enough to justify such a crass oversight.

“Had it been removed and not stolen, the logical place is to be kept secret in the King’s personal archives” His grandfather concludes, but the drumming of his fingers conveys his doubts on the situation.

There is no confirmation whether it had been removed or stolen. Not useful. If the tomes were in the archives, there was no feasible option or believable excuse in getting inside until Noctis was King. When that happened, it would already be too late.

The only consolation was the fact that Prompto believed him. He didn’t doubt the blond had believed him from the start, but he would have liked to do at least this for him –if not to confirm the new theory on the prophecy. There was some truth in the statement that any other person would be suspicious in only hanging by Ignis words.

He can’t be this inconsiderate.

He sighs, crossing his arms.

“Now concerning this Prompto Argentum…” grandfather comments, grabbing his attention.

“A gun,” he says impishly, secretive, one eyebrow raised suggestively. “Give him a beautiful gun.”

Ignis swallows, “As you wish”

“No boy.” He corrects heartily, wiggling his burnt index finger “Not as _I_ wish, give him one you wish” he insist meaningfully, eyes bright and fond.

Ignis stops, gaping at his grandfather cheeks warm and it is imperative to dissuade the misunderstanding. “I’m afraid we are not…”

Grandfather barks a laugh.

“Partnership entails more than romance Ignis.” He explains, voice even and wise as he sweeps away the notions with his burnt hand “Don’t do yourself a disfavor and focus only on that”

That makes him pause, and after a moment nods. It was true. Their friendship was not based on romance, but on trust and a goal. So much so that the blond didn’t seem to have any misgivings after that night –and they had swiftly overcome any awkwardness.

He remembers the blond’s dedication that night. All the tomes of marksmanship and guns he had already reviewed. There is no doubt, which weapon he will choose as his main.

(Though he wonders, how did Grandfather know?)

Prompto would do well with a gun. If his accuracy in videogames was any indicator, his hand eye coordination was flawless. Moreover, guns were the preferred weapon in places like Accordo and Tenebrae; it wouldn’t be amiss for a Crownsguard to have one.

Many of the Kingsglaive had a basic training on guns too.

It was customary to give a present to a recently graduated Crownsguard. Now Ignis knew what would be the most fitting.

 

* * *

 

“I’m dead” Prompto announces to the world before flopping on Noctis’ couch.

“Don’t be dramatic Prom” Noctis chides, but still pats his head assuaging. He’s so lucky having such an understanding friend.

“Yeah, hello to you too Noct” he drawls patting the hand.

“Blondie finished the Mid training obstacle course today.” Gladio explains closing the door. Prompto makes a face at the name, but accepts it this once because he beat Gladio’s record. This was a nice way to go too; he could now put a nice thing in his grave: Prompto Argentum, Niflheim refugee, beat Gladiolus Amicitia’s record in Cor’s obstacle course.

He had earned it. Even if his mind had been swimming with all the shifts for the active Crownsguards and the opening closing hours of the different Citadel Venues for half of the course. Cor’s extra curricular regime was as demanding as it was effective.

Noctis whistled. “Damn would’ve liked to be there.” He says, and then winces at the sharp glare Ignis sends his way, “sorry Specs”

That perks him right up, and waves to Ignis who is in the kitchen. It only takes one second before he’s up again, going to help with the dishes. Dead or not, the dishes are his responsibility. He greets Ignis and is proud when his heartrate remains the same, even when Ignis answers with a slight smile. His teammates were right. That was just an impression because of the weird situation, nothing more.

He’s fine.

“You missed it dude, so now as punishment let me die in your couch” he calls while looking for an apron and dry towels.

That earns him a huff “It wasn’t on purpose, I had magic practice.”

“What? like you climb the Citadel with your swords or something?” he guesses while tying the apron.

“No…” is the non-answer, and when Prompto looks up he sees Noct’s face dubitative and pondering. He’s even scratching a side of his face. Oh now he’s being _serious_.

Next to him Ignis fixes his glasses. “Your highness please.”

He can see Ignis trying to rally his support out from the corner of his eyes. Sadly for him, Prompto will always be team Noctis.

“Holy shit, like, can you do that?” he asks, because now that he thinks about it, the Citadel is huge, and if Noctis can climb that doing the warp strike thing with his swords that’d be so _cool_.

Noctis, of course, smirks. Prompto knows that look, it’s the same one he had that time he went and crashed the worldwide record of finishing Legend of Link: Winds of the Savage by doing it under 30 minutes. He knew better than to talk him out of it, and instead was prepared to massage his friend’s fingers afterwards.

“Prompto stop goading his Highness.” Ignis scolds, but it falls on deaf ears.

“He’s not goading me specs.” Noctis dismisses rising to his feet faster than Prompto has ever seen him, blue eyes light and energetic “That is an amazing idea. The perfect exercise. Prom you are the best. Let’s go.”

“Now?!”

It takes barely twenty minutes to get on the Citadel, and just another five to reach what Noctis has decided is the best spot for climbing. “This is the tallest of the four towers,” Noct had explained, doing a little arm stretch. “If I am to climb it, I will climb the best”

Gladio hums in agreement, and Ignis is still berating them all under his breath. Prompto just looks up the building regretting every word he’s said.

In theory Noct climbing the Citadel with swords sounds awesome. In practice however, Prompto finds out he had really forgotten how ginormous the building is. It sounds easy on paper: fifty-two floor government building with four towers connected by a bridge on the thirtieth floor. He feels like an ant before it. Less than one really. A fall that high would kill anyone.

“Actually I want to change my vote,” he says voice high and intimidated; Ignis keeps looking at him in disapproval. All right, he deserved that but still! “What if there are assassins? What if you fall? Honestly Noct I don’t think this is a good idea anymore…”

Noct just laughs and palms his shoulder in support, as if he were to be the one climbing the citadel with swords, _holy shit Prompto what were you thinking?!_ “Have some confidence Prom. This one is a test drive.” And with a blast of light he starts to climb.

Next to him Ignis shouts a warning and a call for prudence while Gladio eggs him on.

Prompto is too engrossed with the light that suddenly spills out of the building to care anymore. Each cut Noctis makes on the stone of the Citadel is a crevice where the lines spill through, soft and fine like tendrils. They wiggle –something he hadn’t seen before- pulsating almost, and stretch. Maybe trying to find one another. Maybe trying to pain the black stone white.

It’s just like that night Noct fell down on the floor. Only, he had been sure the Citadel held no lines –in fact the only ones apparent come from Noct’s climb. None of the other towers has them.

Why?

It _is_ Noctis, Prompto concludes wary and suspicious. Just like that time when Noct fell down and the lines blasted around them. Now with his swords he was cutting through whatever prevented the lines from spilling out.

Above him, the sky shimmers with the barrier. It leaves him bereft and almost falls forward when Gladio palms his shoulder.

“Don’t worry blondie,” the shield says and there is no mistaking the pride. “Princess might be lazy, but he’s got this”

“Got what exactly?” someone asks behind them, and really Prompto will die if it’s Cor again.

Except not, it’s an older man, following the _King_.

Fuck.

Oh hey! He won’t die! He will be _royally executed! Hooray!_

Next to him both Ignis and Gladio stand to attention and do a salute. Prompto hastily follows, mind going over what to give on his testament. Do people branded for royal execution even get to have one? Inquiring plebeian minds would like to know!

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” the King calls sternly and Noct stills on the Wall. “Why are you defacing the surface of your home?”

His stomach drops. He know exactly why.

Imminent death.

It’s at that moment that Prompto notices they are not alone, there are _Glaives_ with them too. Shit, now that he thinks about it, this looks like a badly planned robbery or something. More rule breaking! More charges aside from defacing public property and destroying royal heritage and what not.

Gladio clears his throat, and the old man –not the King- gives him a reprimand glare.

“Father,” he says, a bit chagrined and holy shit, that guy is the King’s Shield?! His execution will be express. “His highness is just undergoing the Galadhan training.”

Prompto blinks. Wait. So the training was legit? At least by the tone Gladio means business, and… and he’s not crazy enough to lie to the King and his Shield, right?

Wait, so that mean they had this planned already? His musings were just the excuse to give Ignis? Prompto would be proud of the mischief if he didn’t still fear for his life.

A flash followed by a thud and Noctis is there, breath heavy and sweating.

“My apologies your Majesty,” Noct says after a quick bow, and Prompto admires how his voice is even and strong despite his state. “I was studying the training your Grace underwent outside the Walls, and We found the traditional rites of Galadh.”

“It is dangerous to find a cliff outside the Crown city,” Gladio elaborates, eyes looking straight to the Shield of the King. What’s the guys name? Damn it! He should know! “Thus we extrapolated on where we could find a steep surface, with adequate height and central enough to have rapid assistance if something were to happen.”

“In fact,” Ignis interjects, and Prompto knows whatever he’ll say next is 100% bullshit. “There is no taller building in Insomnia which permissions to climbing wouldn’t attract undesirable attention. Furthermore, we chose this venue in hopes that His Majesty would approve of witnessing the progress of His Royal Heir”

The King’s face twitches lightly, and Prompto would say it was a smile but he knows nothing about royalty.

“Be as it may, what does your fourth member have to say concerning this event?” Noct bristles while Gladio and Ignis tense. Prompto dies inside. “We have not heard you speak young man.”

“Prompto Argentum Your Majesty. Current trainee for the Crownsguard at the service of his Grace.” the introduction comes tonelessly, the greeting drilled into him during the first week. _If you ever find yourself in the presence of His Majesty_ , Cor had said, and he’s absolutely grateful for it now.

“I am here to cheer Noctis on your Majesty,” he says, and then adds hastily because the King looks kinda displeased and his first answer was super lame and maybe if he does better he can _live_ , “and to keep tally of his progress”

“And his progress thus far has been?”

“Fourteen stabs in total your Majesty. Three on the first floor, two on each from the second to the third, three again on the fourth and four on the fifth.” He answers automatically, the numbers still as present on his mind as the brightness is on the Citadel’s wall.

The King seems pleased with the answer, and Prompto doesn’t dare to look anywhere else. After a moment the King speaks.

“That is enough for tonight,” he declares, and then focuses on his son. “I will speak with you in the morning concerning your initiative. It is true that we honor the Galadhan tradition of temperance, but hastiness is unbecoming of the Crown. You and your retinue are dismissed”

“As you wish, your Majesty” Noct says and bows. This time Prompto follows Ignis and Gladio in time when they do the same.

He still doesn’t know how he’s able to walk away when his limbs are heavy as lead.

 

(Regis watches his son and his forming retinue walk away. There has always been a struggle between his duties to the Kingdom and Magic, and his wishes as a father. At least Noct chose well in his brothers in arms –or at least he did well considering it was him and not his son who selected most of his retinue.

Clarus shakes his head, and he empathizes. Indeed, this recent activity was not the fruit of careful thought but a bout of spontaneity. The opportunity of a reprimand was gone, however, and now with witness present there was nothing that could be done.

They hadn’t lied of course, Regis still remembers the month it took him to climb the cliffs near Cape Caem.

He bites back a smile. His son had inherited Aulea’s stubbornness. He would like to see him succeed, if only in this task.

He looks at the tally on the Tower. Five floors. A good start.

There is something different about the tower now. He can’t pinpoint what exactly. Perhaps it is just the new holes on the wall. Regis shakes his head. He’s used to his way of thinking and musing, he’ll let the sensation stew until more pieces join, until he has something else he can make a revision with.

For now, he must ensure the best training partner for his wayward son.)

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it. You were _right!_ ” Tredd calls the moment he enters the bar, he’s still wearing his Glaive clothes –which is unexpected. Nyx is the one everyone nags that is married to the job, Tredd is more party-life and fastidious about casual wear and uniform –and plops on the empty chair next to Luche, unconcerned with the sharp glare he’s given.

Nyx still doesn’t know if those two are still dancing around each other or not. Libertus said they finally found some common ground to tango, but Luche is still skittish. Then again, Tredd is a storm when left unchecked.

“Of course,” Nyx answers, smirk as automatic as his words before taking a sip of his beer. Next to him Crowe rolls her eyes, and swaps her shots under Pelna’s sly hands. It’s only when he’s about to take a second sip that the words truly register “wait, what am I right about now?”

“The knife climbing thing.” Tredd says, and then after looking one way and the other, he leans forward and starts to relay with vague details about crazy crown prince climbing up the Citadel with swords, without a safety net. “The noble advisor and the shield were there. Also, maybe the rumors are true, there was a blond guy with them and he’s clearly on friendly terms with the prince.” He quips and then berates over the fact that none of them would make adequate cushions when the Prince falls down.

“So, did he fall down?” Crowe asks, covertly swapping her shots with Pelna’s again. He will not win the Infernian’s roulette, and Nyx can see who will have to drink the ghost pepper fire water when the drinks dwindle. Crowe is ruthless –there is a reason why only the fool play this game against her.  

“The King came,” Tredd answers. “Apparently climbing a cliff is a regulatory part of magic training, and the Prince just extrapolated since he couldn’t well go out and find the cliff himself”

That earns a few bemused chuckles from the table. Who knew? The Prince was an actual teenager who took advantage of parental loopholes. Nyx remembers he’d done the same thing when his mother– 

Just like that his good humor dies. A bit. Climbing cliffs by warping between knives was a Galahdan tradition. It taught temperance and endurance, his cousin had said once he’d come back from training in Insomnia. It had been a bit easy to forget how Galadhans were traditionally meant to be the vanguard of the King, how their territory was a warrior and defense crib for Lucis. And well… it hurts and soothes to know the royal family has not forgotten the tradition of their territories under siege. To know it had been honored for generations.

“Ten says he gives up on the fifteenth floor” Pelna says before drinking his shots and trying his hardest to not grimace. There are only three left on the table, and from how Crowe looks at them, she’s lost sight on which is the real deal.

“Fifteen says he reaches twentieth floor in three months,” Tredd quips in, enthusiastic.

“Now now,” Luche calls, scooting to one side and finally allowing Tredd to share their seat comfortably “we shouldn’t be doing this…”

Luche is an amazing leader, yes, but Nyx has to admit one of his greatest strengths lays on effectively killing a mood. In front of him Luche just smirks, before taking his beer and tipping to him. Nyx frowns.

“… after all war hero over here will probably be roped into princeling sitting. If he knows what we are betting on, it will be a _conflict of interests_.” The smugness in his tone is absolutely uncalled for, but everyone else at the table is nodding.

Nyx rolls his eyes. “I would never”

“You let Libertus get that hint at the bazaar last year,” Crowe reminds him after drinking her last shot, and slams it in the table, triumphantly. Pelna regards the last shot with the resignation of a doomed man. Nyx winces once her words register. Alright, so maybe he would be biased and could choose which bet he wants to fulfill. Possibly. Theoretically.

“It’s just hypothetical,” he chooses to shrug and sip his beer. “There must be a flock of nobles wanting to do the noble thing and teach the Prince of Lucis and whatever.”

That was it.

The next morning he is called to the captain’s office, while Luche’s face grows impossibly smug.

And that is how Nyx Ulrich meets and starts to train his Royal Highness, Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, the crown prince of Lucis.

 

(“Prom” Noctis wails after the first training session with Nyx, practically using his friend as a cushion. He can’t feel his muscles, his head is partially swimming, and he still has the sensation of being in midair. Prompto’s cool skin is amazing, better than an AC, and healthier that sticking his head in the refrigerator. “I’m dead, and alive. That was the best training session ever.”

“Way to push Gladio under the truck, but I knew you would see it my way” is the sagely answer, although he’s still engrossed in the marble match on his phone “the Glaives are awesome.”

Noct knew that already. Prompto had a hero worship of the Glaives and he’d always thought part of it was because of his status as a refugee. Who wouldn’t worship the group of people who saved his life? And well, Noctis himself had quite a bit of pride and awe at their sacrifice and valor for going outside the walls to the frontlines.

“But Prom” Noctis insists, because his friend is not getting the point. He knows the Kingsglaive are hardcore. He’s slyly read the records of the missions now and then, and well, they go out the walls and fight. There is no way the Kingsglaives are something less than hardcore. But there’s no way his friend knew how cool Nyx Ulric was. “They are so much _more._ Nyx is so cool!”

Prompto looks at him for a moment, and then patronizingly pats him on the head before cajoling him into a King’s Knight match.

Next morning Prompto brings a Calendar with him. Of Glaives, topless, and gives it to him with a _think of this as an early birthday present_.

“Prom,” Noctis admits after studying Nyx’s picture for the better part of an hour, face warm and slightly drunk “I’m so _gay_ ”

“Be strong Noct,” is the serious answer, “you have another training session with him this week.”

Noctis groans into The Picture of a Shirtless Nyx posing in vanguard with his kukris.)

 

* * *

 

The working session Ignis had planned for tonight gets derailed when Prompto proposes to give him a massage right after washing the dishes. .

“A massage?” he questions perplexed, while pushing all thought of terrible euphemisms to the grave. Just what is the blond thinking? Is he aware of what that implies?

“Well yeah. I mean you probably have like an army of massagers…” Prompto explains shrugging

“Masseuses?” he suggest.

“Yeah that!” he agrees with enthusiasm “You probably have an army of them at your beck and call but I thought… you know… I could give you one?”

That is not what he’d expected and it warms his heart. Another form of gratitude, unorthodox as the blond himself.  Even if he will regret it later, he finds himself asking “Do you have any experience?”

Prompto just nods, stretching his arms. “Mom and Dad like it. Granted, they have never been to a supreme professional for the nobles and the like, but they looked very relaxed afterwards”

The blond is a dutiful son to boot, Ignis is not surprised at all to find that out. He probably does the laundry and fluffed their pillows every day too. Still, he tries a little test. “Aren’t they worried that you are up so late at night in another man’s flat giving massages?”

Prompto, as he expected, missed the insinuation with astonishing dexterity. Whoever fancied the blond as a romantic partner had a terrible uphill road ahead of them. He wants to be there to appreciate the struggle first row.

He grandly ignores the thread of displeasure that thought causes.

“Nah they won’t notice,” he comments blandly and suddenly Ignis remembers the thing about being mugged and worries. “They got Ninety-thirty shifts, though they don’t even get that much anymore. The way of Sparrowhead I guess.”

“That’s the industrial district of Insomnia” he points out, surprised by the new information. The jobs on the Sparrow Head district are very taxing –if Prompto gives his parents massages and they haven’t suffered from muscle strains then Ignis has no doubts of his credentials.

“I will keep my undershirt on,” he says in lieu of an answer, already unbuttoning his shirt.

“Got it!” Prompto salutes and then gestures a chaise. “Only neck and shoulders. Don’t worry Ignis; you’ll be lots better afterwards. Guarantee it!”

“If I may be inquisitive,” Ignis begins, eyes closed, a good ten minutes into the massage session.

Prompto hums in answer, his fingers digging pleasantly on his left shoulder working the knots away painlessly and it takes a wonderful moment for Ignis to get back on track.

“You don’t live with your parents.” He comments, trying to not let his worry show.  He shouldn’t be, Prompto’s flat was small, and he had suspected there was no way a family of three had enough room to live comfortably. Of course, given the economic disparity in Insomnia, he was horrified to learn there were larger families in the Crown city that lived in less space. Yet Prompto went to a high school that demanded a moderate affluence. Even if he was enrolled in a scholarship for science.

To confirm Prompto lived alone was not something he thought possible, and it started to paint quite the grim picture.

"I have an Uncle from dad's side -Izana. He has a Chocobo ranch somewhere outside of Insomnia," he begins animated, but his fingers remain steady working dutifully on a knot on his left scapula. Ignis own twitches every now and then, and he's both surprised and embarrassed at how tense he's been. "The apartment is his, but since he's out I'm staying and work to pay the rent. It’s way cheaper; it costs more to pay for transportation from my home to school than renting a tiny flat and walking the distance "

Ignis suspects Prompto just pays half of the rent. The apartment building isn't exactly on an exclusive Area of Insomnia, but it was central and had good development. A one room one kitchen and two bathrooms flat in that zone is not something one could pay the rent of with just three part-time jobs. Prompto probably sleeps on the couch when his uncle is in the city.

Though that both explains the chocobo paraphernalia in the apartment and the reason why the blond is very specific on what he spends his earned money on.

“Prudent,” he conceded. The justification was entirely logical, and it answered the question of why even if cab trips didn’t cost an exorbitant a sum as he was led to believe, Prompto didn’t take any at night.

“That reminds me…” Prompto begins after a while and Ignis almost misses it, mid mind lost somewhere between cool fingers and the lightness on his back. “This flat is not exactly next to Noct, but he does complain that you’re always there. Do you use ninja powers, or did the Crown have some secret tunnel to get you there?”

“This is a family home,” he explains.

“Really? I though all you nobles had like super lavish flats and…” Prompto rambles on.

“… this is my room,” he clarifies once the blond finishes, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. “The Scentia Household owns this building”

“Oh… So ninja powers it is.”

The rest of the session passes in silence –or for Ignis himself, in unexpected bliss.

“It has been one of the most Pleasants massage sessions,” he praises sincerely once it’s over, while buttoning his shirt. Shoulders delightfully soft. Perhaps one day he’ll take the offer and let the blond work on his whole back. Certainly, the chat and ambiance was much preferred to the cold professionalism of the few session he’d engaged before.

Prompto huffs in disbelieve. “You’re… pulling my leg right?”

Ignis bites back a rueful smile. “Back to work Prompto”

“Hey, that’s deflecting the question!” the blond complains, finger pointing accusatory. One day he’ll teach him that pointing fingers is in bad manners.

“Just like how you did with the massage,” Ignis baits instead, because no amount of goodwill will make him overlook a blatant act of misdirection.

That of course earn him a gasp. “I did _not!_ ”

“Neither did I,” he counters evenly, mild as milk.

Prompto looks at him for a moment, and Ignis does smile right then in victory.

“Fine you win,” he says, rummaging his back and taking out his digital camera. “Here are the pictures”

Ignis reviews them, sitting back on the couch and yet it is not the flowers on queen Lucrecia that catch his attention but Prompto. He’s fidgeting with his wristband, and somewhere Ignis feels guilty of trying to lean as inconspicuous as possible to get a glimpse at what could be underneath. When that is fruitless and Prompto is still shifting Ignis turns off the camera and says “on with it Prompto.”

The blond blinks, recoils a little, and then blurts out fingers finally stopping fiddling with his wristband. “The Citadel has lines”

“You told me there were none”

“Yes I did! And honestly it was the same until Noct started to climb. Then they just… pilled out from wherever Noct pierced” he explains gesturing wildly. “They remained afterwards. Like I can see if Noct had a session because there appear new bright spots in the rock. It’s super weird”

“You didn’t have the camera with you,” Ignis notes with well hidden trepidation. Why is he surprised? Hadn’t he suspected the blond to be able to see outside the viewfinder since the very start? Yet something in the blond’s posture, in the was he shifts the weight from one foot to the other, the avoidance of his gaze… something tells him this is not normal.

If this development was recent, what could be the trigger? Noct’s blood? Something else?

Prompto nods, “No. I can see them without the lenses now.” He says passing a hand through his hair, quick and absentminded. “That’s what I had wanted to discuss earlier. Noct just powers up the lines. In the park and at the Citadel.”

He then goes into details about what he saw in the Citadel, and Ignis can’t make head or tail with it. It is important, somehow, but outside of wall they had assumed until now. Another wrench in their theories.

Ignis crosses his arms, and doesn’t exactly pace –but he wants to. Lately, he’s started to think if what Prompto sees has anything to do with saving Noct.

Could they be related? His only joining point are his nightmares. But that means nothing, that could mean something entirely. Maybe what Prompto sees, and his nightmares… maybe they are not for preventing Noctis’ fate, but to ensure it happens.

Ignis shakes his head and buries the thought. No. If it isn’t tied to the prophecy, they will make it work. Somehow.

Yet even his determination lack in the face of where they are currently. He does a quick recap of what they have right now, the flowers, the Kings, the lines on the floor, which Noctis powers, the lines in the Citadel that Noctis brought forth. And of course, the nightmares, his fire that has no relation with the King’s magic –and the secret he hasn’t told Prompto yet.

Then again, the blond hasn’t come forth with whatever lines under the wristband –and what if it is a key? At least a key to understanding his nightmares.

There is also the missing book and the person who took it

Ignis freezes. what if it wasn't someone? What if it was somet _hing_? Some sort of divine being doing and intervention. He'd considered it a nod to fate that he'd met Prompto right after reading the prophecy. But what if it was not just suspicion?

What if he'd only been able to read what the entity wanted, and now that he had the book was gone?

They have all this information but no lead. Pieces of a puzzle that sides don’t match. It could be anything –nothing.

They need a key. It could be in the book. It could be somewhere else. Ignis closes his eyes, it could come when it’s already too late.

He looks back to Prompto’s antsy, to the stalling in the form of a kind and welcomed offering, and to his grim visage. It could mirror his own.

Seven months –Six months doing this together and no conclusive breakthrough.

They are going nowhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OTL I am very sorry for the late update and will answer all your wonderful comments tomoroow, but -Surprise Glaives! This won't be the last you see them ヾ（〃＾∇＾）ﾉ♪  
> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: Noctis, Iris Amicitia, some unnamed people in the Citadel, Cor (and Clarus Amicitia, and Regis, and Cid, and Weskham), Gladio.  
> Working title for this chapter: Everyone Keeps Dying a Little™ except Gladio: the chapter.  
> Will Prompto ever meet Ignis grandpa? Will the world be destroyed before it happens? Who knows.  
>  **Warnings for next chapter:** Interrogation and Panic Attack


	12. Feelings interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis wonders about choice. Prompto wants to believe in the weight of his own.  
>  **Warnings:** Interrogation, Panic Attack, mishandling of panic attack, Consensual use of Confusion, mentions of torture.  
>  This is not a happy chapter. I’m sorry.  
> Title comes from Mawaru Penguindrum’s OST. [Here](https://bloomandcoffee.tumblr.com/post/174840037827/peachfaun-deactivated20141012-mawaru-penguindrum).

Prompto finishes reciting the schedule of the Citadel’s sous chefs for this week, and Cor nods. “Well done trainee. Not a mistake this time”

Prompto cheers. While he had at first thought Cor would give him a training from hell, instead the Marshall pushed him to learn the schedules of all the Citadel’s venues, shops (yes! It had shops, even ice-cream ones!) and services.

All in a very roundabout way of making sure he had no excuses the next time he was found out trespassing. Last week he had moved into learning the schedule of the various people at the service of the Citadel.

Ignis schedule is incredible. It took him three days to memorize it completely, and how it changed from week to week. His friend barely slept four hours before he was up an about going to his responsibilities to the crown and fulfilling it with excellence. He knew Ignis leisure time was short, but to know that their project was practically leaving him with no time to himself and to rest.

Prompto had wanted to do something. He had at first thought about brewing him an excellent cup of coffee, or even cooking or something but knowing Ignis’ demanding palate had stopped him. There was nothing he could offer that Ignis couldn’t get somewhere better. So he chose the massage instead, a little thing, but Ignis deserved at least this much of a reprieve.

His suspicious had been correct of course, his neck and shoulder were rock solid. It had taken time to work through them. Ignis gratitude, as polite as it could be, was reward enough.

Enough to pin him with guilt that is.

They aren’t advancing at all. His pictures are leading them nowhere and he’s taking more than what previously scheduled. Between the training, Cor’s penalty training, school and his part time jobs he’s running thin on time to take them all.

He can’t let Noctis behind, he can’t fail Ignis –not when he’s shouldering so much and fulfilling everything in such a great fashion- and definitely not his rent.

He breathes.

He can do this. If Ignis can, he can too. He can do better, even! He had more free time. He can definitely achieve more. How else will Ignis take him seriously as a friend and support to their plan?

Prompto will not be a deadweight.

“Trainee Argentum?” Cor calls, blue eyes studying him and Prompto straightens his form.

“Are you eating well?” is the unexpected question and he doesn’t know how to handle it. On one hand, Cor is insanely demanding –but he is also fair. Truly an inspiration, a personal goal to achieve.

On the other, he really, really doesn’t want to trouble anyone –much less the Marshall. So what if protein bars are not as good as advertised? He can still pull through. It would also look bad on his parents and he really wants to avoid that at all costs. His parents are good people. It is Prompto’s own fault that he hasn’t managed his finances correctly.

Forcing a smile he faces Cor. “Yes sir!”

The Marshall narrows his eyes and stands up.

(He comes back with two apples, one for each, and Prompto tries his best not to devour it whole. From there on forward, the Marshall always brings a fruit or a vegetable with him.

Prompto doesn’t know what it brought this on, but he’s ready to more than make up for this act of kindness.)

 

* * *

 

Ignis brings another heavy tome to his study table, which is starting to look like a miniature fortress. Due to their indiscretion Prompto can’t enter the library, so Ignis will take the bulk on investigating fables and which kinds their heroes successfully defied fate.

He must commend the Library’s extensive cataloguing services in that regard. Finding fables and folktales was easy, and while none of them had fate as a further subject, they did indicate which had Gods at their core.

It had helped him shorten the time consulting the collection.

His research leans on the use of a pyre, and fables around them. There is a considerable amount of them in the library. Strange, given the Lucis venerates the Draconian and Insomnia venerates the Magna. But he is not going to question a bit of good fortune.

Hopefully, one of them could give him more clues to decipher his nightmares, or at least what a pyre could do to derail fate.

So far none have struck anything in particular, and the first tale in this new tome doesn’t look much more promising:

_A Fool’s errand_

It tells the story about a modest musician who lived in a small cottage near a forest. Every day he would fine tune his instruments and practice joyous melodies in preparation for the town’s festivities.

One day, a woman approached the musician and asked is she may be his audience for the day. He’d accepted honored and happy that one person would like to listen to his chords. She left at sunset, but was there the following morning, and the next and the next.  It was a goddess, who had fallen enchanted by the melodies he spun. They fell in love and joined in a melody that lasted and eternity and not enough.

The next morning the musician was alone.

He had tried looking for her to no avail, and desperation drove him to the Infernian’s temple and beg on his knees for solace an intervention.

The plea softened His fiery heart, and so he’d asked the musician for three items: a pound of white gold straight from the rivers, two star seeds from the forest he gave a ballad to every day, and the horn of Typhoon.

It then goes on the trials the man underwent to obtain each and how, when offered to the Infernian, the deity burned him to ash as a reward. For no mortal should ever commit the sacrilege of coveting the divine.

His sacrifices meant nothing.

Ignis closes the tome. None of the previous fables had such a bleak end. Everything was lost, all sacrifices were for naught, the innocent punished and led like a fool...

 _Oh_.

That’s the objective of a warning he guesses. But who could be foolish enough to try and love a god? Especially when they conjure cruel fates.

Even so, the story seats badly on him. A bit to close to his own expectations and the nightmares he has. What if their burning at the pyre meant nothing? Does nothing to further their goal?

In his nightmares, they burn. He had first attributed that to trauma, and then after meeting Prompto -after seeing him ashen in his arms- he knows it is related to something else, something bigger. Is it prophetic? Ignis doesn't know. He had thought perhaps that is the key to derail Noct's fate but at this point it could be anything.

There is a purpose on their pyre, on whatever darkness consumes Prompto from inside. Out of the two, it is Ignis the one who knows how they will -could- end. Why is that?

Dreams and Nightmares are the realm of the Manga, not the Infernian so it has no relationship with his magic core. If the magic realms were properly followed, it ought to be Prompto who had the revealing dreams, since gravity belongs to the Magna and so reaching for dreams would be easier.

Prompto lives in the illusion of a world of choices, and Ignis can't begrudge it. Not when they want to unravel a prophecy. Choices are the antithesis of the absolute, but Ignis wonders now how much of a choice do they have?

Maybe this is all a joke on Ignis: having all the pieces of a puzzle come to him without being adequately formed to process them.

He shakes his head. It was unbecoming to be pessimistic at the first glimpse of a wall. He had to stay positive in order to find a breakthrough.

There is a footnote at the end of the tale. It informs that while this compilation is about Lucian fables throughout the continent, Accordians have a divergent take on this fable.

Ignis smiles. Well then, it was fortunate he had one for quick consultation. Though he suspects the divergence comes on naming the goddess and not how it ends.

 

* * *

 

If there is one thing Prompto knows will forever be true, is that Noctis’ couch is amazing. A second one would be that his lap makes the perfect foot rest. They are in his flat, playing some colorful multigame with squids and paint. Another time it would be amazing and entertaining, right now he’s seeing spots with how colorful the characters are, and how chromatic the painted floor is.

“You look awful” his friend, ever the tactful, states the obvious after they lose the match, “and your coordination sucks, you should have been able to get that floor covered in no time.”

“Sorry” he mumbles not feeling it. Quitting two part time jobs had been a bad idea, even if he was aware he was en route to getting fired from one and that he couldn’t meet the other with the new training regime of the Crownsguard and the special “penalty” with Cor three times a week. The last paycheck barely covered his rent and living expenses.

The picture business in winterest hadn’t taken off –not that he expected to actually go big with amateur pictures for 0.99 credits but he had _hope_. He couldn’t find another job when he knew the training would get stricter next month. From what Octo has gleaned, the trust exercises and bonding training is going to be a nightmare. There is going to be at least one _pressure_ test (a.k.a. torture session if Cinque’s words are to be believed) somewhere in there too.

(He’ll blithely ignore that last thing. Gladio, Ignis and Noct passed through that, it can’t be that bad. Cinque is just being dramatic.)

Going back to live with mom and dad wasn’t an option. They were too far way, and he knew sleeping in a train wasn’t good enough to rest. Moreover, helping with Ignis took time and it was too important to not do so. He always left after the last trains had gone one hour or two ago.

It wouldn’t work.

“Just some rent problems” he mumbled against the couch’s pillow, and then turned his head a bit, adding convincingly “solving it at the moment.”

Yeah he could do it. He just needed a few hours of fitful sleep and he could brainstorm for it. At least summer vacation would be soon. He just has to endure for a bit.

He’s a Crownsguard trainee, and he’s going to defy the gods. He can totally take care of his housing problem. 

“You could always stay in my couch.” Noct suggest one eyebrow raised and Prompto groans at the tempting offer. His couch was the softest bed he’d ever had the pleasure to crash in, aside from Noct’s actual bed.

“No.” He rejects though. He’s not dumb, people could start to think things, like nepotism and such, or like Noctis is his sugar daddy (partner? Friend?). It was a bad idea through and through. 

Ignis had asked about it in a weird way a few weeks ago. He’d said he shouldn’t stop doing his usual friendly antics, but Prompto understood the message. He had to be careful. At least on the obvious things, like sharing clothes (not that he ever did, black was a royal color and Noct’s wardrobe was rife with it) or accepting the offer to use his flat as his home.

He’s already been told he only got into the Crownsguard because he was friends with the Prince. Granted, it had been a jab by some noble he’d defeated in a spar. But he’s going to be in the Crownsguard, being aware of rumors and reputation and stuff was part of his job. It could grow, and he didn’t want to give them any more justification.

(He still wonders how Ignis does it. How Gladio does it. Though it is easier to imagine not many would have the guts to tell that to their faces, but still.)

There are rumors about preferential treatment too. What with Cor taking him away from training, or he going to the Marshal’s office three times a week. Queen had been stern about it, and it had made their relationship a tad bit awkward. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he couldn’t give his fellow trainee mates the reason why Cor was taking him to ‘special training’. That would put Ignis on a horrible situation.

“You could stay at the Citadel,” Gladio suggests, closing the book he’s reading. The cover is candy pink, but there is black stripes and dots of red. It’s either a novel about vampires, or cursed correspondence between a human and their secretive supernatural lover. He’ll ask Noct later.

“Dude, I don’t think I can ever pay the lease of a _broom_ closet,” he complains. The pillows on Noct’s sofa are the best. “Is it even legal for a pleb to live here?”

Gladio rolls his eyes. “There are barracks for the Kingsguard. It’s not usual for nobles to use, but they are fine.”

Prompto was paying attention now. He could imagine for a noble having people think they had no place to sleep would be a scandal. But he had no shame to admit the truth. Especially when a solution was at hand. Because first, fuck them, and second he would never have shame over some flimsy thing he’s never had.

Next to him Noctis looks as if this all was brand new information. Heck maybe it is? From the time he’s known Noct, he’s aware of the love-hate relationship with ruling and government logistics.

“Can I really apply?” he asks, just wanting to be sure. This could _work_.

“Yes.” He confirms with a tone that clearly says _Prompto you flufflball pay attention to what I just said you are a trainee in the Crowsnsguard_ “Their schedule is very strict, no bringing anyone over, no skipping night, not leaving the Citadel without an official permit, the usual. But you are eligible if you are undergoing training for the Kingsguard.”

That... poses a logistical problem. His plans with Ignis was important too. One of the reasons he enlisted for Crownsguard. Was there a way to have enough of an official excuse to leave the barracks? He’ll have to run that with Ignis, he knows more about official protocol and stuff. “Does school amount for an official permit?”

 

* * *

 

Remedi Scientia was a very busy man. Not in the sense of a moving man driving around the Crown City to fulfil the demands of his customers, but in a sense that his trade was as demanding as it was time consuming. His uncle is a Florist whose flower arrangements, among other things, now had amassed an impressible reputation.

How exactly it had come to pass is something Ignis willfully ignores. There is just so much romantic rumours and nay says he can endure before he takes a time out. Uncle had weaved all mysteries under the exoticness of being from Accordo and the secrets of the heart trade and Ignis does give him a bit of credence. 

Especially given the true purpose of his garden.

 _Accordo is known for two things_ , Uncle had explained once he was ten and finally allowed into his greenhouse, _Love and its nectar_.

He was given a short course on where to look and where _not_ to, and what to avoid in the greenhouse all while his uncle tended with care a few bushes of deadly nightshade and leaves of a highly and securely contained Rosary pea. Not many would believe a botanical pharmacist by trade would have deadly plants in his garden, but Ignis had found many.

 _It can heal or it can harm_ , Uncle had laughed when he commented on it. _The knowledge comes on how to use it_.  

That’s probably how he knew most of the romantic rumour mill and stood on top while not being Lucian born. Not many could pride themselves on having the exact tally on all the nobles in Insomnia who requested ‘ _invigorating medicine’_. 

In any case, if one wanted to find Remedi Scientia, one just had to go to one of the several greenhouses of the Scentia homes in Insomnia and try their luck. It was favourable to Ignis of course, that he could enter any without the need for an appointment.

As expected his uncle was there, tending to a bush of betonies plant. His knowledge of the plants was extensive, and yet he hadn’t identified Prompto’s. He had said the shape was familiar, but it was hard to pinpoint. He’d assured tem the flower couldn’t be an Insomnian brand, and they had searched in the library about strange plants and flowers of Lucis and found none. 

“Good afternoon Uncle. Could you give me a moment please?” Ignis interrupts, closing softly the door of the greenhouse.

Uncle turns around. This afternoon he’d changed his glasses for a security ones, and Ignis had to commend they didn’t detract from the solemn and playful look he used during business. His hair is a light brown shade, but he had carefully maintained grey stripe in honour of his brother. The pigment was a special mix his uncle had created once by accidentally mixing some weeds and roots. It took a few tries for it to have any other colour than grey, and then a few venturing strands of hair to prove how much they could take.

It turned out it dyed the hair faster, with more care and the color remained faithful for more than one month.

Mother had been pleased with the discovery and her hair had been as green as leaves when she had gone to the Citadel the following morning.

“Always Ignis,” he answers with a warm smile and gestures for him to come closer. “Come. What can I help you with?”

“I want to know about the Infernian”

His uncle makes a surprised sound. “I haven't seen you this curious since…” he wonders while gesturing his right arm, and the burn that lays hidden by his clothes. 

It still stings, even though he'd only taken it with good nature. He still doesn’t understand. Why? Why is he deserving of such filial loyalty and gentleness?

 _"Would you begrudge us were our roles reversed?"_ he'd asked in return after Ignis had aired his doubts.

It had stilled his tongue and his turmoil. Of course he wouldn't, and yet part of his still can't believe everything was forgiven with a smile and kind words. It's hard sometimes. If only, they are the testament of his lack of control, of the lie he's perpetuated since he was eight.

(The lie that will bring Prompto to the pyre)

“It's not about magic,” he corrects. “Not this time. I was just reading fables.”

That has hi leaving the spray bottle on a nearby workroom table. “Fables?”

Ignis coughs, oddly embarrassed. “I read the _Fool’s Errand_. The fable about a mortal who fell in love with a goddess. It said that Accordo had a different take on it. I’m curious. Do you know it?”

“That’s one old story, but I have heard of it. Your paternal grandfather was an enthusiast of those,” he elaborates leaning on the workroom table. Impish smile on his lips.  “If I am not mistaken, it goes something like this...”

It is not what he’d suspected. The story is the same. The mortal fell in love with a goddess. They have an encounter that feels infinite and yet not enough and the goddess then leaves, for even if their love is true, the mortal and divine shouldn’t combine.

The mortal goes to the Infernian, asking for an intervention, for solace. The lord of fire acquiesces, but demands three items the mortal has to fetch.

Instead, the changes come at the end.

In the Accordian ones, the Infernian burns the human as an act of _mercy_. The three items he asked were for him to make a jewel to the goddess. An immortal present for her to remember her mortal lover. The Infernian spun a necklace of white gold and shiny stones, as delicate as a strand of hair, from the hearth of the mortal’s pyre.

If they could not be together, at least a true token of the mortal’s sentiments would forever be with the owner of his heart.

"The result is still the same," Ignis points out. Where was the mercy in death? A pyre was a pyre, and Ifrit had burned the human instead of giving him eternal life or something similar to be with the goddess.

“But his death is not.” His uncle demurs firmly. “Your parents. My brother and my sister in law. They died _alone_ ,” he says, serious and grave. They are alike, he and grandfather. Able to move on yes, but the grief is still alive, solemn and tender.

The tombs in the Stupeo-Scientia mausoleum are empty. Their bodies were never recovered. With the news of the Empire taking out the Glacian after squashing the rebellion in Accordo all efforts to retrieve them were abandoned. Once Tenebrae fell whatever hope they still harbored was squashed.

Even so, Ignis knows his parents died alone.

He's read the reports of course. His mother’s envoy, one final act of good grace from the Kingdom to the Empire on Accordo, had been destroyed by Imperial air engines. An accident they had claimed. They were hunting down a flying monster and the envoy fell during the crossfire. There were no survivors. A trusted source of the King had confirmed it as had the Primer of Accordo herself.

The empire in live transmission three days later had executed Father. Not by a firing squad, but by monsters that devoured him and his comrades whole. It had been an example by the Empire and the images were etched in his heart.

A warning of what would happen to Eos whole if the Empire won.

"The sickness of loneliness after a cruel separation is deadlier than any other Ignis," Remedi declares, seriousness tinting every syllable. There is the reason why his uncle is acclaimed in the romantic noble circles, and how he might or might not have become a confidant and counsel to some ladies and gentlemen of polite society. “The Infernian understood it, and made sure to reunite the two in a form that would be eternal for the goddess and her mortal love.”

“The tale is surprisingly benign to the Infernian,” Ignis says at last. Once he has swallowed his memories and his uncle’s vulnerability down, bite by bite.

His uncle takes his spraying bottle and goes back to work. “Accordo venerates the Tidemother, but there was no reason to hate the Infernian.”

Ignis blinks, surprised at the information. He had assumed... “Weren't they arch nemesis?”

“We need water to survive, but it is the fire that keeps us warm and safe.” Remedi gently explains. All sweet words but he carries a reminder of how wrong they are. A reminder Ignis burned –by accident, yes, but still. He’d burnt his own family.

“Too much fire and you will burn,” he reminds grimly.

Uncle only tuts. “Too much water and you will drown. Ignis, everything in excess is a danger.”

Ignis raises an eyebrow. “Even caution?” he asks, dry as the Duscae.

Uncle snorts in good humor while spraying the leaves with patient care. “Especially caution!” he exclaims turning around. “Now I’m not telling you to fling yourself out of the nearest window, but conflict is necessary for growth.”

It is incredible easy to juxtapose those words with his current situation concerning the prophecy and their lack of progress. Ignis takes advantage of it. “What if there is already a conflict?”

“Then you need to approach it from a different angle.” Uncle’s answer is followed by a spray he’s too slow to dodge. He hasn’t fallen for that trick in years.

Sighing he takes off his glasses and dries them.

Even with his blurry sight, he can guess Uncle is smiling mild as milk. He pities whomever had ever fallen for it.

“Point taken,” he conceded, putting his glasses back on. “I’m afraid it won’t be an easy a task as you make it seem”

“If it were, no conflict would ever be taken seriously. The importance of a conflict lies in its struggle.” His uncle dismisses the notion with one hand and then palms him heartily on the shoulder. “But Ignis, don’t carry it alone. The greater the struggle, the more company you need.”

No one could ever accuse Remedi Scientia of being subtle. Ignis curbs the urge to cross his arms.

“It is not that easy,” he admits acidly. It is the truth, not an excuse, and yet the words feel like one on his tongue.

“Because of your secrets.” His uncle states more than guesses.

Ignis shakes his head. “I'm certain he's keeping secrets of his own.” It is only when the words are out that he’s aware of them and pales, tries to form a plan to make his uncle forget –as futilely as it would be- because this is _Prompto’s_ personal information, not something he could tell his family. He’s been so careful to skirt over the questions to his grandfather...

“The kind related to an embarrassing tattoo, or the ones related to you?” Uncle asks, one eyebrow raised.

Ignis lets the silence speak for him.

Remedi nods, visage growing grim by each move. “Then maybe, Prompto is equally afraid.” He speculates after a while. Ignis would like to believe in it, it would make things easier. “One of you will have to take the first step.”

“What if his secret puts the Crown in jeopardy?” he asks, and is ashamed of the thread of trepidation in his tone. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Wanting to know Prompto’s secret, what lies underneath the armband, why could he see the lines and fractals. Yet at the same time, wanted to ignore whatever could be there. The utterly selfish notions that by having it out of sight, he could avoid having his nightmares become true. 

“Like yours did?” is the humorous observation. Ignis had tried time and again to explain why having developed magic on his own is terrible for politics without success. So very _Accordian_ of him to say the least. His uncle continues though, tone growing serious, hazel eyes studying him. “If it is truly dangerous. Would you kill him?”

In his mind, Prompto transforms from his vision that night at the library to the pitiful state that awaits him in his nightmares. The dubitative gaze, the cool fingers, the firmness beneath his fingers, they all give way to tattered clothes, blackness corrupting his blood and eating his skin. Soft breaths give way to violent coughs that burn his throat.

Prompto is in pain, and in this state is a danger to them all. Ignis knows, he’s felt – _seen_ \- his skin burn at the contact with whatever illness the blond contracted. In his nightmares, when they burn it is both an act of mercy and an obligation.

“Yes.” He answers resolutely. Ashes in his tongue.

(Though he wonders if this is his choice, or he’s just following the script of his nightmares)

“Oh Ignis...” Uncle’s tone isn’t exactly pitying, and Ignis takes any small mercy he can. Instead of furthering the topic, his uncle invites him to tend to his garden. He accepts. It is one for the few days he has an afternoon off, Prompto is supposed to arrive in the evening after his training. He’d rather have a more calmed mind by then.

(Remedy bids goodbye to his nephew a few hours later, once he’s worked out some of his tension through the care of the flowers in this greenhouse. He had assumed that Prompto kid was closer on soothing and balancing Ignis but it hadn’t happened yet.

A matter of trust and fear, he suspects.

He sighs and proceeds to clean the table. Barely an adult and already so heavy with burdens. All in the Citadel grow up so fast in their roles and people wonder why they burn in equal speed.

Prompto too was now caught on that same monstrous wheel. All done by their own volition. He admires and resents it a little. He wishes them time to grow up, if only to have a middle life crisis and regret some of their young choices _together_.

Because that’s what his nephew deserves.

His brother had died three days after his sister in law. But he knows his brother was a mournful lump of bones and flesh when monsters tore him apart. His soul had died with his wife.

Being left behind is not a torment he’d ever want his nephew to bear. 

No one should die alone.)

 

* * *

 

Prompto groans as Seven stops trashing in his hold and comes back to. His ribcage is bruised at the very least, he’s sure. Seven had been a nightmare to face, and the woman packed a mean elbow even when he had her in a submission hold.

“You can unhand me now Argentum,” she says, voice ragged and still a bit drunk and Prompto relents rubbing at his chest and the places he knows must be horribly black by now. Yeah the strategy of him subduing the Confused ally while the others took the status effect potion was the most effective thus far, but it _sucked_.

This wasn’t shaping up to be a good training day. Granted, he knew this week the training would grow more intensive –but a training on how to handle a confused ally? Talk about masochism.

The point of the training was to have them all ready in the eventuality of facing a monster, or a rogue magic user, that could cast different status effect on any member of the team. Prompto had thought they would start with something simple, like, something that made them blind, or something cute like toads.

But no. They had gone right for confusion.

To control in a safe environment his ass. This was insane!

“Trainee Argentum, you are up next!” One of the instructor calls after writing something on Seven’s file.

Prompto approaches even if he really, really wants to be somewhere else. He totally should have gone to Noct’s and play videogames before going to Ignis’ in the evening. Why hadn’t he done so?

“Remember: you are not liable to whatever you do under the influence.” Cor says, and Prompto really wants to believe it but he can’t muster anything. Just –this is a confusion spell. He knew, in theory, magic could mess up with the mind but he never wanted to be near any of that.

And now he would get firsthand experience on it. What if it killed him? What if it wasn’t a confusion but something to control his mid? Could people do that with magic? Like a Geass from that anime?

What if no one snapped him back? Granted, the test was snapping the confused teammate under two minutes, they were equipped with status effects nullifiers just for that and the Marshall _had_ said the effect would fade on his own after five minutes. But well, he wasn’t exactly normal.

What if someone tried and he got stuck? What if he had gotten an unknown grudge on someone and they took advantage to make a killing blow?

“Argentum!” the woman assisting the Marshal and the Crownsguard instructors today calls. Prompto looks up at her. There is nothing familiar.

Everything else is a blur.

It is cool, and blurry. Everything around him is white. The air he breathes is the cleanest ever –like the things he sees in the advertisements for expensive perfume or something. There are fuzzy grey shapes that try to approach him. Prompto only wants to touch. They are squishy and hard.

One of them pushes him around with enough strength to let go. He stumbles on the ground but rolls around, mindful to not hit the next one. Instead of helping to raise him up, the next figure tries to bat him away.

A game perhaps? He smiles. He’s always wanted friends! Time to make some! His Firsts! (The first? No that feels wrong. But he did friends before, right? Why is it so hard to remember? Did he?)

He goes with the flow of the next and uses the lib as a polearm. It is squishy and maybe it is the force but it breaks. Just when he’s about to apologize another fuzzy shape comes with enough speed it is easier to vault him away.

It stings somewhere, but he’s very competitive. This is what roughhousing means, right? He’s not going to lose.

The shapes grow in number and all of them are lively. It is a bit tricky, playing one against all, but that’s fair. He’s going to be accepted into the clan or something. That’s how games go, right?

There is something wet on his arms, and running down his face.

During his game, he finds the way to stop the fuzzy gray figures is to step on them somewhere in the middle when they are on the ground. That leaves them stunned.

The ground is wet. Weird, was it raining?

Noises?

He frowns. Was that a scream? But this place is soft and quiet. Was someone hurt? Why? The only thing here are the soft gray fuzzy things that don’t like to be touched. They don’t make sounds.

His body is light as he twists. It’s exhilarating, like a videogame. Like the commands go straight to his limbs and he’s an spectator.

(Somewhere deep inside he’s screaming in terror. _Stop stop stop, why can’t I stop, why is this going on, stopthis STOPTHISRIGHTNOW!)_

The shapes are in the ground, and don’t move a lot, all of them. It’s a bit sad. There is no one else to play with.

Or so he thinks until something hits against him. Its grip is strong enough that he can’t twist.

He can still bit though so he does. Whatever is underneath the exterior it tastes weirdly. It’s chewy and doesn’t give, but he can smell something spilling underneath.

The grip slackens just enough. He can only stumble forward though before another one has him in a tighter hold.

( _Get him on hold Monica!_

 _Yes Sir!_ )

Whatever holds him turns him around and he blinks at the next grey figure. Tall and imposing and swallows.

One moment he’s in front of the fuzzy figure and the next the Marshall is over him.

Why does he look so worried?

There is roaring noises all over him but they go so fast he can’t understand them. Someone is crying –that he knows. Who?

A woman is holding him. He blinks slowly and details her face. The ashen hair short at the jawline, her voice sharp but echoing. She looks familiar, but Prompto can’t pinpoint from where.

Someone else, dressed in clear clothes hoist him up. The movement allows him to look around better.

There are people around his age. All of them being attended by similar clear clothed people. Is that Seven? The one with the weirdly looking Arm was King, no doubt about it.

The last thing he sees is Ace’s battered face, bloody and in pain.

Had he failed?

Everything goes white.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Prompto notices when he opens his eyes are the handcuffs, the ache on his back for having slept on a chair. In front of him are two people sitting as well, a table between them. 

“I want a lawyer,” he states slowly. His tongue numb, and he tastes something coppery inside. Worried, he passes his tongue over all of his teeth making sure all of them are accounted for.

The woman giggles. “You aren’t getting any.”

The words leave him cold. “What?”

“We aren’t the police,” the man says showing some kind of badge, the design familiar, but the move too fat for him to catch. “I’m a medic, your information is protected by my Hippocratic oath”

Prompto blinks, and the move is tight in one eye. He tries to place which but somehow can’t. “Medic?”

“You are in the medical Wing of the Citadel.” The woman answers, dress white and hair held in something. Is he? He’s been there before, something about Trey and his cheek or something. The building is the same but something is off.

The man –medic- clears his throat. “Mr. Argentum what do you remember last?”

Prompto frowns. There was something important, but his mind is like cotton. It feels heavy and numb. That had never happened, was this what a hang over felt like? Worst feeling ever.

“Why am I in chains?”

The doctor just keeps writing something in a folder. He hasn’t said anything yet. Why was he writing? What was he writing? Something about him? A crossword puzzle? That is not good.

“Why are you writing?” he asks, and tries not to wince when the soft scratching sound stops. The silence in the room is as eerie as the medic’s stare.

“Are you ready to talk Mr. Argentum?” he asks and Prompto finds himself nodding.

“The confusion…?” he mumbles, but doesn’t know how to elaborate. Was he a tester or a testee? Was there a grading or something?

The medic taps his pencil on the file to grab his attention. “Confusion? As in a spell?”

Spell is magic. Magic is under heavy restrictions. Why is this medic asking that?

“Why can’t I move my legs?” he asks instead, being as uncooperative as possible.

“All measures of precaution Mr. Argentum. Wouldn’t want you to do harm” there is something off in the affable tone. This medic is starting to give him the creeps. Where were everyone? He _was_ with someone before, right?

“I want to move my legs,” he insists. “I will not harm anyone.”

“But you have,” The doctor corrects unfurling a picture of what must be a woman dressed in Crownsguard uniform. But her body is twisted in weird shapes, her jaw seems broken and there is blood pouring out of her mouth. And is that a pool of blood?!

“Crownsguard Ema. Died a few hours ago. Among her injuries are, a broken clavicle, a bite on her left arm,” Prompto freezes at the mention and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the others in the room. The doctor continues listing them all with clinical precision. Most of them sound familiar one way or another and it’s making him ill. His skin itches and his toes curl.

Did he really kill someone?! When?! Why didn’t he remember?

No. Wait. The confusion test. Ace was all bettered up. Gods, were there anyone else? Did he kill anyone during it. Cor had said he wasn’t liable to anything under the influence. He had _promised!_

The floor is so _cold_.

Something next to the picture grabs his attention. Syringes.

He bites down a scream. Where is Cor? Ignis? Noct, or Gladio? Someone?!

There is a syringe on the table. There is a syringe on the table and he only noticed them now. Why?!

“We wouldn’t like this to happen again to you.” The medic says but all he can hear is how this man will keep him away from his training. He tries to move his legs but can’t, the handcuffs are heavy and even a small move makes a loud rattling sound.

This must be a test of some sort. Not from the training, but from life.

They were fighting against fate. One day possibly they would fight against the Astrals themselves. How could he be of any support if he couldn’t beat _humans_? He breathed through the knot on his stomach, the cold of the room and his aching bones.

If they took him away then he couldn’t help Ignis. Didn’t he have a session with Ignis tonight? What time was it? Was he already late? He had to call Ignis, to let him know the disaster at…

“I wouldn’t like that to happen to you either. Why aren’t you in this chair too?” he challenges.

“It says here you are a refugee. From Niflheim,” the medic says taking out a file or something and alarms blasts on his head.

“I am Lucian,” he pushes the term like a shield.

“A refugee,” the medic insists, pointing at something in his file. There is a picture of him as a baby, malnourished and small.

“Adopted,” he amends stubbornly.

“You weren’t born in Lucis Mr. Argentum. Here it is clearly stated,” the medic tries again but Prompto isn’t having any of that. Whatever is his is for Ignis to know, this human isn’t privy to that.

“Doesn’t mean I aren’t Lucian.”

“No but it puts into question what you were.” The medic continues, tone mild but there is a slight movement in the slant of his lips, in the shine of his eyes that make him feel of having taken a bait.

Prompto keeps his gaze and talks with the same resolution he’s amassed to face the divine. “A baby? If you went that much into my profile you would know when I was adopted”

“There is nothing concerning your true family,” the medic says, leaning forward. Prompto hides his hands under the table with an ugly rattling noise. The medic is rude, but he doesn’t deserve to be punched for his nerve.

His true family is in the Sparrowhead district.

“For example, who is your father and your mother? Or if you had none” he continues, and Prompto perks up at that information. Could he not have one? How?

Why would this medic know that?

“I had parents. Obviously.” He states, because everything else is just _ridiculous_. And yet his voice trembles a little.

The medic leans forward, something familiar in his face but Prompto can’t identify what. “I’ve heard Niflheim had a project a few years ago. To create these beings in test tubes. Faster and hardier than us humans. Little monsters with our face and with ingrained commands to kill and destroy at any command.”

The doctor lets the words set in before continuing, “we wouldn’t know if they exists, they would look like us. Little robots pretending to be humans, waiting for the command and kill everyone that crosses their paths.” At that he taps the picture. “Uncaring of their state and that of their victims”

 _This one is a human_ , Prompto reminds himself, _this one is a human and I should not be afraid of him!_

“Of course they are just fables. Even if you hadn’t had a father you needed to have a mother. Unless you couldn’t confirm it?” the doctor taps his pencil on the folder and Prompto still ignores what he wrote. Was that a file? Was that just a paper?

He huffs in disbelief. "You are asking me to recognize the people related to me when I was three years old? Who gave you your medical license? and don't come and tell me that Lucian kids can remember from that age and younger. We both know that's bullshit."

The medic smiles, and Prompto realizes the familiarity comes from the myriad of memories he has of growing in Insomnia. The looks other people gave him, the sideways glances and upturned noses, the disdainful _dirty niffs_ "No one would care. Just this is enough."

"So you can find my parents with just that?" he reaches hopefully. Not that he's staking much on that option but he's curious. He must have come from somewhere, right? He couldn't have just, grown in a test tube like the asshole is implying. Right?

"Yes, just a bit of your blood would-"

Prompto has seen enough horror movies to know where this is going. "No thank you."

The medic stands up, syringe in hand and Prompto zeroes on the gleam the light makes on the needle. "You haven't understood Argentum. You have no say in this procedure."

He laughs.

"So let's recapitulate. You won't let me have a lawyer, you want me to tell you about something I don't remember -which understandable, and then you want me to remember something almost impossible and use it as an excuse to get my blood?" is he hysterical? Maybe? He can't move his legs, he really, _really_ wants to leave. "I'd say that's way too much an excuse. That's one fucked up kink you got there"

"Excuse me" the medic stops, baffled but his face is red.

"...and Lucis must be worried that your type is a doctor. I don't want to know what you do to little girls mister." he adds, just to see his face turn from red to a somewhat purple before the asshole schools his expression to neutrality.

"I will not-"

Prompto goes on, taking that little opening and milking it from all what it's worth. If he can't get out he will make this man's life as miserable as possible while making time for someone to locate him. Someone should, right? Cor must be on his way. "But let's say, you are right and I just grew up in a tree and somehow am a whatever Niflheim sci-fi wet dream you fancied today. You could pinch me, take a bit of my blood but it would grow possessive and do terrible things to you. Or maybe it wouldn't -but you know something all those weird sci-fi come from nowhere things have in common? Death do not stop them. I know your face now mister, I wouldn't mind tormenting a fuck up like yourself"

He's defying the gods. This human is nothing. _Nothing_ compared of what he and Ignis want to achieve.

The medic pales for a second before glaring venomously and leans over him. Prompto doesn’t dare to look at the syringe. “That would be acceptable. If all you said was spoken in Lucian instead of Niff.”

All his courage breaks into pieces. He swears he can hear the ugly sound each make as they fall on the floor. In Niff? Was he talking all this time in another language? How?! Was it something in his head? Was it a programing in his mind? In his blood?

Would he become a killing robot one day when someone gave a remote order?

“Then…,” He begins agitated and stops. The word sounds normal in his mouth and… and the medic looks fine. There is a clock near the left wall with today’s date and something clues him in.

Smiling he leans back on his chair, mustering all the bullshitting experience he has amassed from watching movies and action tv series. “Then you should go see a doctor. Hearing words in another language is not normal Mr. Interrogator.”

The nurse hums and Prompto can’t make a thing out of that sound. “What gave it away?”

It’s only glimpses that come to mind, but he answers. “The badge and his face when saying Niflheim... and you didn't ask me what date was today.”

The nurse smiles and it’s the creepiest thing Prompto has ever seen. “Well done Trainee Argentum.” And with that the purple nurse stand up, practically saunters where he is and cleanly takes his handcuffs off. She then does something on the back of the chair and the thing holding his legs comes off. “You are free to go.”

Prompto doesn’t know if he can stand up. The nurse says something else to the interrogator, and Prompto only sees his pale face, and his eyes zero on the nervous tic on his hand when the interrogator stands up and leaves accompanied by the nurse.

He…

He did good right?

 

(Cor Leonis storms into the medical hall, scaring a small flock of Division-Zero operatives away. Fatherhood, Clarus had mocked. But fatherhood has nothing to do with this. Prompto was a good trainee, and he will not allow him to be mishandled by the D-0 as they please.

He had allowed the branch to conduct the pressure test. Never had that permission extended to mess with the confusion tests. Arecia would find why the Crownsguard general branch was as relentless as it was territorial.

“You took one of mine,” he warns the woman once he is on hearing distance.

“Ah. If it isn’t the Marshall,” the woman greets, placid and innocent. “What can the D-0 assist you with?”

“Your test didn’t include messing with the confusion spell Al-Rashia.” He reminds her. Their messing not only resulted on Prompto being taken away: twelve trainees and two official Crownsguards had sustained injuries. 

“Ah but it should,” The woman clicks her tongue and dismisses with a hand. All astrals be damned but he hasn’t wanted to kill anyone more than this terrible woman right at this moment. The D-0 and the normal Crownsguard branch have a terrible rivalry, but Cor admits right now he wouldn’t mind turning it bloody just for this.

As if reading his thought, the witch smiles overly condescending. “Streamlining Marshall. Why should we have two session of disorientation for the trainee –and risk him overcoming the second one faster- if we could make use of one? Saving resources”

“And that one?” he asks, nodding to the interrogator on the far corner. “Was that also saving resources?” he all but growls.

“That one won’t ever come back,” Arecia interrupts succinctly. Her hazer eyes shining with the reminder of what magic she wields –and of the rumors he’s heard. Cor would like to kill, but the witch would never hesitate, no matter the station or the previous relationship. “Clearly, they have behaved against the guidelines. The last one.”

Cor nods at the information. He will try to forget how nonchalantly they had discussed the fatal dismissal of a subordinate. That is how D-0 deals. There is a reason he never entertained joining them while doing intelligence work outside the Wall.

“Where is he?” he asks. The sooner he got to Prompto, the sooner he would make sure the kid is fine.

“We dismissed him. He’s left the Citadel already,” a young woman quips into the conversation, checking some notes on a file.

Arecia looks at her assistant incredulously, and the poor woman squirms.

“Inform his caretakers. Trail him, and stop only if he becomes a danger” the D-0 headwoman instructs calmly. “Oh and Emina? Remind my ducklings I do not _suffer_ faulty professionalism.”

The woman pales. “Yes sir”

Arecia turns around, one finger up. “Marshal, I will take this from here. Do not make me repeat myself or I will have the painful duty of labeling you emotional compromised.”

He knows when he’s been out gambled. Arecia smiles and he wonders how many saw that before their demise “Trust the team that was carefully chosen.”)

 

* * *

 

Ace’s car is not as luxurious as Noct’s. It is obvious, one is a noble, the other is the prince, and yet, somehow, Prompto hadn’t imagined it. He’d stood up from the table the moment he was cleared, a look at the clock had told him he was already running late.

He went to the adjacent room, got his clothes, changed into them and then was walking out. It would be a nightmare but maybe if he ran he could still reach Ignis, or at least not make them waste more of their time.

It was fortunate that he crossed paths with Ace, who had offered a ride and a shortcut to the Citadel’s garage.

It had been a strange conversation so far; with Ace giving a report on how everyone else was doing (No one was permanently harmed. All injuries are healed. _No._ No one died Argentum, really, everyone is fine.) and how the test finished (The practice was over after you went for examination. The last two are rescheduled for Monday.)

The baron was treating him nice. Not that Ace was ever mean to him, but usually the other was as much of a bookworm as Ignis. He had probably taken the unexpected free time for a quick visit to the library.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks once they are inside while he turns on the engine.

Prompto looks ahead, and gives Ignis’ address.

He misses the quick look of disbelief that Ace gives him.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but they are already pulling out.

Prompto nods, crossing his arms. Ace is probably worried, and while he can’t give the true reason why he’s going to Ignis, he can dispel all worries just fine. “My parent’s shift isn’t over.”

Ace doesn’t say anything else. Or maybe he does, but Prompto is too focused on the lines on the street, on the buildings, of the flowers on the few statues of the King they pass by. He tries to not look up. He tries to ignore the dazzling sheen of fractals that make the barrier above them.

He doesn’t realize they have already arrived until the car stops. Prompto blinks, startles at the familiar walls of the Scientia family home.

“See you on Tuesday Argentum!” Ace says and Prompto frowns.

“Why?” he asks, and hates how soft his voice sounds. He can do better than this. But even so, why would Ace say something so cruel after driving him away from the Citadel? He’s already lost the confusion test, and whatever the weird medics had found from his questioning–

“Because you’re one of us,” Ace cuts right through his thoughts. Blue eyes serious. “See you on Tuesday.”

Prompto smiles and tries to believe in those words. “Thank you”

 

* * *

 

Prompto stares at the door of Ignis’ flat. Of Ignis _room_. Honestly, he still can’t believe this whole building is just a house, and that Ignis’ room is bigger than the whole floorplan of the building he lives!

It’s the third time he hesitates on ringing the bell, but then again, why would he? He announced himself at the reception desk, and Ignis obviously knew he was coming up.

Was he mad? He was definitely mad.

Ignis and Gladio ought to have gone through this –maybe even more than just one and worse too! He ought to have done more – have aimed for outstanding instead of great. He shouldn’t have flinched or shown pain.

Explaining his situation was just an excuse. Better man up and just ring the bell.

Apparently, that’s what Ignis was waiting for, since he opened the door at the first ring.

Ignis looks at him, and strangely, his look of mild disappointment changes to one of concern. “Come,” he says, and once they are in the living room softly asks “what happened?”

“Well we did say we would meet after my training,” Prompto reasons still confused at the change. “Is it too late? I’m sorry I should have called, training got longer than expected. But! I am here, it is ok right I can show–“ he stops when he pats the air at his side.

Where was his camera? And his bag? Back in the Citadel, maybe? Shit, they were there right? In the locker room he used!

Of course, he had been forgetting something!

“Prompto?”

He swallows. “Sorry… I just” what could he say? I’m sorry I just lost all our equipment for being a forgetful ditz who couldn’t get his act together after a confusion test?!

“Did you go to the authorities? Have you given a report yet?” Ignis gives him a once over and an awkward pat on his right shoulder. Prompto tries not to hiss at the contact. “You certainly haven’t. Allow me a moment, I will accompany you.”

He looks back flabbergasted. Report? Authorities? “What? No Ignis there’s no need. This was just training.”

Ignis pin him with a look. “Training? I don’t remember training leaving me in such a state”

That spurns him on. He’s scoring weak compared to Ignis, he should step up his game –but how when his camera was back in his locker? What if they found them and saw the pictures? What if they uncovered what they were working on?!

“Don’t mind it Ignis. It can be brushed off, it’s nothing. I can do that. I was created to do so!” he waves off the concern. Consciously avoiding to look at how the hits on his forearms slowly go from dark violet to green and a few to the strange color between yellow and skin tone.

“Created?” Ignis question makes his stomach drop. Shit, had he said that?!

He tries to laugh it off but the sound that comes out of him is just the worst. More a nervous wail than any laugh. Good job on diverting the attention Prompto. Good fucking Job. No wonde he was kicked out of the program. “It’s a matter of speech Ignis”

“Prompto–”

“Which reminds me! I left my cameras at the Citadel locker room! What a klutz right? Better go Ignis and–”

Ignis' hand is firm and warm on his arm. It’s the touch that paralyzes him, more than the pain of being gripped so tightly right over a bruise.

“Prompto! What did you mean?” He asks again, more firm this time. His hand leaves his arm though. Prompto can breathe easier.

“Can you not?” But the stare is hard enough to trounce any feeble attempt at denial. The Humans questioning him before, he could manage them just fine. But this is Ignis, and –and he’s been wasting their time just like he wasted Cor’s. He hadn’t been able to find anything, he forgot his camera at the Citadel wasting the session tonight (to which he had arrived _late_ as well!), and worse someone could find out what they were working on.

He owed that to Ignis. This much at the very least.

He doesn’t know he’s trembling until his left hand grips his right forearm.

“I’ll show you, but you can’t say a word,” he mumbles scratching the skin right beneath his wristband, not looking at Ignis even once. He has no place to demand a thing, but he asks it anyway. Just to have a tiny little thing of hope, something like _see you next Tuesday Argentum_ , but from Ignis.

He takes a deep breath and just –just get on with his death warrant.

He’s too enthused taking off the bracelet to notice Ignis paling, to notice the tension on his shoulders, or how those green eyes widen with each line revealed of his barcode. He bears his wrist to Ignis, the pale skin, the ugly mark, and it is then that he sees his friend (would he still have a friend? Would he still be friends with Noctis? Would he still be able to continue his Crownsguard training?!) grimace, green eyes fleeting from the stain to his face and back.

Prompto swallows, bitter and cold. “I told you once that I wanted to become a Kingsglaive. This is why.”

Ignis’ silence is worse than his anger, Prompto realizes. At least if he was angry, if he shouted, Prompto would know where they stand. But Ignis remains silent, his face unreadable –it could be anything.

He could be waiting for an explanation. He could be drawing the formal veto on his friendship with Noct. He could be mentally planning a way to take him down and giving him to the authorities, to the weird scientist that said they would experiment-

Prompto breathes –or tries to.

There is something heavy in his chest. Swallowing, he squares his shoulders, tries to keep them straight, to not tremble. He’s gone this far into his mistakes might as well own it, give him a reason to believe he is not an enemy or something worse.

(They want to break Noct’s fate –what if they had met dead end after dead end because of him?! Because he was a Niff–)

“I was rescued by Lucians,” he begins, croaks, and he hates how his voice wavers, how he can’t stop shaking, how keeping his eyes on Ignis _hurt_ , “I was adopted by Lucians. The people I call mom and dad, the people who raised me are Lucians… I would never have this life if not for them.” He insists, because Ignis needs to understand “I want to pay it forward.”

“Prompto,” Ignis calls, voice stern and he flinches, looks away, looks straight into the ink, the stain he can’t erase.

(and he’s tried. With bleach, sandpaper, and fire –mother had stopped that one, had lectured him over it and he’d stopped it. Mostly because he couldn’t disappoint her.)

“This is what happens to the children of Niflheim” he insists, with a thread of voice, eyes still in the black lines and the numbers. It’s not even a normal tattoo, the skin around it feels different, even the sensation and temperature varies. Not exactly a burn, but it’s almost like something was pasted on the ink and took root.

“They are rounded up, marked and sent to facilities to become MTs.” He continues, parroting the words his mother told him. He rambles, earnestly making his case. How they were rounded and marked, how the training or experiments or the bad things start then, how the children of Niflheim have no choice and the parents no way to keep them safe.

“My blood parents died taking me out of Niflheim, and it is because of the Kingsglaive that I got to Insomnia and was adopted.” He concludes voice raw and feeling more dragged and shaken than he ever had during the last few hours. “I owe everything to them, and so I want to pay it forward. So I won’t stop”

“Then don’t,” Ignis’ comment stuns him. His posture is straight and firm, the Prince adviser he truly is. Prompto tries no to cower before him. However, he flinches at his next words:

“But stop this”

“I can’t!” He counters before he can even rationalize his words. Why?! Is it because he was being a liability? Because he just lost them the cameras and someone could find? It was just a mistake, but Promtpo can do better, can be a better help! “I’ve always been afraid. What if I stall and don’t do a thing and whatever is in my blood will get us killed?! I’m afraid to be too late; what if those precious minutes I wasted could have been crucial to help Noctis? To help you?! To uncover whatever road there is to stop and break this prophecy?!”

He shouts and heaves. It’s still difficult to breathe. His heart races, his dry eyes burn and his throat feels raw. His muscles are weighting on him, his face is burning, and he passes a hand over it, trying to alleviate it, trying to hide.

This is simply the worst.

Just how is he supposed to make Ignis believe he’s competent if he just crumbles at every little thing?

“This is tiring you” Ignis’ words are as kind as his words, but all Prompto sees his how he stopped mid reach, how his arm is back, keeping the posture straight. It stings more that what he’d imagined, but this was the inevitability.

Prompto shakes his head. Ignis simply doesn’t _understand_! Why is it so hard? “It shouldn’t! You aren’t as tired as I am, and this at least should do something to help me not–

Ignis voice is firm and rising, “I was raised with this intensity since birth. It was gradual, unlike yours–”

“I have _not_ failed. I will do better Ignis!” Prompto powers through the interruption, eyes firmly het on Ignis’. If nothing else, he would like to make that one thing clear. He will do better. No matter how, but he will do better and get the breakthrough they both need to beat the prophecy.

He’s already gone through most of the exchanges for a place to stay at the barracks. He’s got this.

Ignis shakes his head.

“It is not a matter of failure” he begins tone stern and green eyes shining, he opens his mouth but pauses, eyes narrowing and then continues “nor is it a matter of blood. It is a matter of education”

“I can learn fast” Prompto declares.

“No, that’s not it. That is what Niflheim wanted out of you.” He explains, voice grave, and nods to his wrist, “But you grew up in Insomnia; you are a Crown citizen from the Sparrowhead district and your skillset and endurance is unique to that district. Even if you had certain advantages of terrible origins. Did your blood allow you to beat Cor?” 

The answer is as easy as it is grounding. “No”

Ignis smiles, it is just a slant of lips, but Prompto notices and his next heartbeat is painful and hopeful. “There you have it,” He says warmly “That’s because you grew up with your own purpose, with the freedom to choose, and with your own life.”

That stops Prompto.

He was fat as a kid, and it took effort and a good year to get in shape. Every morning jog every food he forsook for something healthier. It was effort and dedication, if he was truly an MT… they probably weren’t engineered to get fat. Killing machines must be fit at all times.

But he had been fat, and he had lost weight and become fit by his own effort. That previous training that made it possible to have a place in the enrollment of Crownsguard trainees –and it took an effort to maintain it; otherwise, he wouldn’t be having problems with training and juggling his schedule.

Wouldn’t have had a hard time with the confusion session.

Ignis grip on his shoulder is still tight, but kind. The warmth of those fingers permeating through his clothes, touching his skin. It reminds him of another night, months ago, in the library.

They had time. At least they did.

“You too then.” Prompto hazards after a moment, looking straight into Ignis eyes and holding his gaze. “If I’m going to have a break, so should you.” Because he’s seen Ignis' crazy schedule. It wouldn’t be fair if Prompto took a vacation while Ignis continued their research. He deserved a break too.

Ignis nods. "We shall resume after you graduate from Crownsguard”

“I’ll do it as quickly as I can” he promises, and Ignis’ hand leaves his shoulder. The movement is unexpected and stings. 

Ignis turns around, looking out the window, “You should leave. The barracks entry has very strict laws.”

There is finality in his words, and Prompto doesn’t dare to speak. He closes his eyes, they burn and it hurts as much as the smoldering rock lodged in his lungs.

A labored breath later he’s covering back his shame with clumsy fingers, and turning away. He throws one last look at Ignis’ straight back and leaves the flat with a small goodbye.

(He meets Ignis’ uncle at the gate. He’s talking with his parents who light up the moment he sees him. Prompto all but throws himself into their arms and never question why they are here, nor how did they find where he was.

It is easy to forget about it when he cries his heart out in the drive back home.) 

 

* * *

 

Ignis doesn’t move from his spot until he can’t hear Prompto’s footsteps.

 _That’s because you grew up with your own purpose, with the freedom to choose, and with your own life._ He'd said those words, more as an attempt to believe them himself than an attempt to soothe. How despicable.

He’d rather remain ignorant of what laid underneath the wristband. Now he knows, there is not turning back. Everything has fallen into place. That is the ink that will kill Prompto. The curse seeded in him since birth.

Creation. He'd thought it had to do with divine intervention, despite knowing gods were cruel. Rather, _because_ they were. It had been too convenient, Prompto’s abilities, his unusual low blood pressure and heart rate, the abnormal healing...

Ignis laughs self depreciating. Around him, vases start to crack, and the flowers his uncle gave him wither rapidly by the sudden change of temperature.

He should have known, he should have _known_. Cruelty was not a unique celestial trait. The Empire wouldn't let something as simple as morals get in their way of conquest. The Empire had to do something to produce so many MTs so fast and out of nowhere… and he’d naïvely thought it were just robots.

Something so perverse, taking children away, creating a human being for violence, blood and death. No matter what gratitude or reasoning, Prompto had chosen the path ingrained on him since conception. Ignis had set him off on it for his convenience. He shouldn’t have, how could he?!

He slams his hands down the counter with a snarl and quickly takes a step back the moment he sees dark imprints on the granite. It’s too late. There is imprint of his hands on the melted stone.

He turns away, steps sharp.

Water, bathroom, he needs to calm down.

He needs to calm down _now!_

The door handle sizzles under his hand. He goes headfirst into the shower, still clothed. The cold water brings a small alleviation, enough to cool his head a little.

It’s not enough.

Promtpo was unsettled. Unsettled and battered. He’d thought about a mugging, of Prompto’s luck finally running out. But that hadn’t been. Training he’d said, but only one thing come to mind. Only one thing would explain the cuts and hits littered on his bare arms, his momentary forgetfulness.

Clarus had conducted Ignis' own pressure test, but there was no guarantee he would be there for Prompto’s.

He’d been spooked, but not defeated –and Ignis had gone and pushed too far. Pried something he shouldn’t, something Prompto had given out of desperation instead of willingness.

He should have been aware. He should have seen the signs!

He–

He takes a deep breath and instead swallows water, cold drops that turn scalding in his mouth.

(He’s burning, and he’ll burn Prompto too, when the illness activates and–)

Another moment, another deep breath, and he starts divesting, letting the soaked heavy clothes fall to the floor.

He should have known. It had been too easy to picture the blond among death blood and fire –it should have rung an alarm and it didn’t.

Prompto was more than a weapon, was more than just a device of fate and he, he had led the other around. To stop fate they would have to burn, and even now Prompto thought they would survive. That he had a choice. Ignis hadn’t revealed that detail. Any, really. Hadn’t been sincere.

Hadn’t been brave.

… and he had let the other go after the pressure test. Alone.

Ignis growls, furious and self recriminating and hits the bathroom wall and recoiling when the tiles crack under the heat.

This was going nowhere. He opens the tap to maximum and stays under the cold water, arms crossed, hands gripping his arms painfully to stop another reckless move.

Right now Prompto was consumed by the training he was programmed to undergo anyway –albeit for a different faction-, and he was going on a path that would unknowingly lead to his death. All because he had a good heart. Like Prince Noctis.

The parallels were daunting. 

Steam fills the bathroom, thick and turbulent.

That was the tragedy of it all. To save one, the other would be condemned. Ignis had chosen and was certain what Prompto's choice would be. Noctis was their priority. Lucis needed its King healthy and alive, the world and their country would be better off with Noctis alive. They had joined forces to stop his fated death. Prompto wouldn't care. He would see it as part of his duty, as another token of gratitude freely given. Did he ever get the chance to live as himself? Had Ignis thwarted that?

Tragedies only hit if someone cared.

_The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid. To usher in Dawn's Light will cost the life of the Chosen._

Maybe it was already foretold.

Of two people and one would die, for the other –the King- to banish the dark.

His hands shake, but he doesn’t cry. The tiles break under his feet.

One day, the Illness in that ink will be unleashed. On that day, they will burn –and then, maybe Noctis fate will change.

Changing a fated sacrifice, could only be possible with another sacrifice.

 

 

(His uncle finds him after having put down the fires in his room.

Ignis can’t even word the apologies and soothing words his Uncle needs. This is a disaster, and he doesn’t know what to do to reign it in –to undo what happened. Because Prompto is now gone. He breathes with his uncle until the fire is burning beneath his skin, but no longer bright.

“We will change the tiles,” Uncle says when leading him to the home’s spare room. “This has a solution Ignis. Rest for now. I’ll be here if you need me”)

 

(Rest of course doesn’t come. What awaits him are nightmares of ash and fire.

This time their clarity is as jarring as their changes.

Prompto’s hands burn his face, melting skin and eating bones, as he pushes him, as he squirms trying to get away from his hold. He can't let that happen. Even if their end is gruesome, letting Prompto go would mean the end. He won’t. Everything in him shudders in terror at the possibility.

So he ducks his head out of flailing hands and tightens his hold on Prompto to stop his squirming. He can feel how the weakened ribcage caves under the pressure and Prompto coughs copiously, blood heavy and black. Ignis screams at this madness. At having his every move make things worse.

They have no time. Ignis has to forcefully tip Prompto’s face up, and the look on those ailed purple eyes is rife with pain and despair –and something Ignis won’t let himself name.

He leans forward and breathes the fire, lights the pyre right above Prompto’s lips.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: Noctis, Iris Amicitia, some unnamed people in the Citadel, Cor (and Clarus Amicitia, and Regis, and Cid, and Weskham), Gladio, the Crownsguard trainees.  
> Haha how funny it is that right when Ace and co believe it, those two break it off. ヽ(〃･ω･)ﾉ
> 
> So here is the thing. Work has become a bit hectic since we are going back to the old HQ and all the collection pieces must arrive intact. Is it ok if I change the updates to every Thursday? Please let me know!


	13. Citadel's Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on for Ignis and Prompto and the people who live in the Citadel.

 

 

_Sorry for not having texted in a while, I left my phone in the Citadel. Mom and dad gave them back today._

Send message [Yes] **[No]**

 

_You haven’t sent any text messages since then. Haha I mean yeah I get it. I’ll just be on my way.  dw_

Send message [Yes] **[No]**

 

_Sorry Ignis._

Send message [Yes] **[No]**

 

_I am sorry Ignis. I was totally out of line that night. Shouldn’t have done that to you._

Send message [Yes] **[No]**

 

_Please don’t tell Noct. I mean you could and all but please? Well if the police hasn’t gotten to me yet it mean you didn’t, but still, promise?_

Send message [Yes] **[No]**

 

“If you keep staring like that, you will burn a hole through the screen sweetheart!”

“Mom!” Prompto doesn’t exactly jump out of the patched up sofa but it is close. His mom regards him from the doorframe, arms crossed, but grey eyes kind as she enters the living room.

“You aren’t playing Knights knights…?” she asks while trying up her hair. It is still short and he agrees with father that a ponytail just makes her look like she has a little paintbrush in the back of her head.

“King’s knights,” Prompto supplies

“That thing.” She laughs and sits next to him. “You aren’t, are you dear?”

“No.” he says, though really she doesn’t need it when she can clearly see the screen of his phone.

“Ignis…” she says, leaning on his shoulder and hugging him a little. Prompto would like to say he doesn’t need it, but that’d be a lie. The physical reassurance is grounding. “He’s the one you told, right?”

Prompto nods, and fixes his brand new wristband.

While what happened after his parents arrived had been a blur, he remembers clearly that he’d told them that Ignis knew about his secret. He remembers being held and cooed and had slept with the light on and a warm blanket, and eaten his favorite dish the morning after.

Father had looked out of the window for a long time and followed him like a Hawk on Monday when he insisted on going to buy the groceries. _Just in case_ , he had said, _a precaution. I know you trust this Scientia boy, but he’s still in the government_.

His father couldn’t do much, even if he and his brother had fought off the empire out of their ranch before fleeing to Insomnia. If the Glaives or Crownsguard came to take him away, he would offer himself so his father would remain unharmed.

Yet when Tuesday came and he was driven to the Citadel for training nothing seemed out of the normal.

A week later and Prompto knew Ignis hadn’t said a word –not that he’d ever doubted him much but still. His parents had finally relented and finished filling the petition to transfer to the Citadel barracks. Prompto had been thankful. While his parents had a two week vacation by order of the Citadel (and Prompto is suspicious on who could give it) they driving him to the Citadel and picking him out of school was weighing them down.

Not like his parents would ever tell him so. But Prompto isn’t blind. He’s caused them enough stress, what with them having to pay for Izana’s flat now that he’s not going to live there and be able to pay the rent by himself.

“He hasn’t texted ever since, y’know…” he tells her, trying to ask for guidance without really having to. This is his fault after all. He should be able to solve it by himself too.

He’s already finished packing the few personal belongings he can bring to the barracks. Today is the day and he knows he won’t be able to text Ignis as much as he wants. Won’t even be able to text a morning message –not that Ignis had cared because he hadn’t texted back at all and what if.

“Maybe he wanted to give you some space?” his mother guesses, cleanly cutting through his moody clouds. “You were in a bad shape when he left. Perhaps he didn’t want to upset you more and is just waiting for you to text him saying you are ok.” 

Prompto hums, leaning over the screen. That would totally be Ignis. Giving spaces and only approaching when things calmed down. Though if they couldn’t see each other, how could Ignis know?

He clearly cared, because he hadn’t told anyone about his secret MT thing.

Maybe his mom was right. He was being careful and waiting for a go ahead.

It is easier to write down a message with that concept in mind.

_Good morning Ignis. I’m sorry I haven’t texted you before. I just got my phone back. I’ll be going today, so I don’t think we can message each other a lot. I’m fine. I hope you are too. Have a great day!_

Send message **[Yes]** [No]

He’s proud when he sends the message. Next to him mother cheers and they high five. The message is still unread but Prompto doesn’t put much mind to it. Ignis must be driving right now to Noct’s.

Nodding he tucks his pone in his jeans and raises up. He stretches a little before taking the duffel bag with a dramatic effort just to make his mother laugh. Everything is good. Father must be waiting for hem in the garage –and it’s such a ridiculous notion of them seeing him off like parent leaving their kids at elementary school or something. 

Parents huh.

“Mom,” he calls, turning to his mother a little and she just leans “About my birth parents…”

She smiled sadly, caressing his hair. “You came as a refugee. We never met them.”

Prompto knows the story by heart. Just like he knows the story of how his parents met. With her mother smuggling his father and his brother over to Insomnia when she found them running for their lives. How they had become closer while bickering among the junkyard of the Sparrow head district about what constituted smuggling and what was just appropriation of produce and objects not regulated in the law.  How they had fallen in love during another smuggling mission, when his father had rallied his mother to take up law school, had shown her the potential she had for the law and letters.

Mom had accepted going to a night law school, but only if dad took a course on trade school. The rest was history, Machina and Rem Argentum got married during graduation and a few years later they had decided to adopt a baby after hearing many of the refugees in Insomnia were toddlers.

“If they were alive and in this City, they would no doubt do their best to contact you. Or pass time with you.” Mom says with utter conviction and he wants to believe her.

“All packed up?” father asks when they enter the garage.

“You bet!” he answers with a smile and then leaves his duffel bag in the trunk.

“You should take this with you,” dad suggests, giving him one box. Prompto recognizes it, it is still has bits of the original gift-wrap he used a few years ago for New year  

He’d made the cleaning robot as a means to help with housework while his parents were away, and to help his parents when they were home so they could rest longer. He had programmed it to clean the house twice a week while he was at school so he could tidy up the house by himself while his parents were working.

He even had given one to Mama Adler as a birthday present a few years ago, to help her with her chores.

“I don’t know. It is very loud,” Prompto guesses, still taking the box. It’s not that big –it’s more the box than the size of the robot and its charger. The noise was the real problem. There had been some noise complaints from the neighbors, and Prompto had changed the robot a few times until he noise was the usual for the district.

Who knows if it was normal for the quite halls of the Citadel?

“I’ve heard they have surprise inspections,” dad says closing the trunk. “If the floor is clean you can rest at easy.” He continues, repeating word for word what Prompto himself had used that New Year.

He smiles, all warm and fluttery inside. “Alright. I’ll take it then.”

 

* * *

 

Ignis reads the message again and closes his eyes. It takes effort to maintain the grip on his phone stable; to not turn off his phone; to get out of his car.  

How to answer the text? How to initiate one? The questions had plagued him since that night, during the conversations with his Uncle, each morning after the horrendous nightmare. The first two nights Prompto’s phone was off. On the third, it was never picked up. He had stopped then, and had refrained from sending any text.

If Prompto had been telling the truth, his phone was in the Citadel along with his cameras. Insisting on communication could make people suspect.

It’s a bit relieving to know the other is fine, alive. Yet Ignis doesn’t know what to write back. What could he? Anything his mind forms sound hollow or bitter. And he knows every word would be laced with deceit the blond shouldn’t bear. Even if it is an apology.

Because.

Because–  

_I will kill you. One day, I will burn you. I will–_

Ignis stops himself, wills the knot in his chest down, and tries to breathe as covertly as possible to regain his ground. This will get him nowhere. It will only string him along and nick at the venerable spot on his control.

He can’t see grandfather, not until next month. But his concern has been duly noted.

His bathroom is renovated, as is most of his living room. He doesn’t need grandfather’s stern lecture (no letter has arrived, but he knows what awaits him the next time he visits the Stupeo-Scientia mansion) or his uncle’s worry to know he’s done horrible. He lost control that night, enough to damage his home, to destroy his bathroom, to hurt both his family and Prompto.

He looks back at his phone and forfeits on sending a reply for now.

A week is not enough time to have everything under control. He has executed his duties to the royal crown with the same excellence, but behind closed doors, Ignis knows organizing his thoughts –gaining back control over his fire- is a slow progress.

He hasn’t burn anything in days, and his uncle always makes sure each morning that his temperature is fine before leaving. But each day brings a new clarity, and new shard on the kaleidoscope analyzing that disastrous night, the dreaded revelation inked in Prompto’s skin.

Prompto wouldn’t have shown that in public. Hadn’t really, the pressure test was a testament to that.

Prompto had considered his room a shelter, a safe haven, a home. Even if spooked, he had trusted Ignis enough to not take advantage. But Ignis had. He had questioned and pushed Prompto after the torture test.

A torture test with Arecia Al-Rashia–and learning that detail had chilled his blood, had tightened his stomach and reach blindly for his phone, for a text message he would never send.

There is no use apologizing for what’s already done.

He can’t sincerely apologize for having taken advantage and pried away Prompto’s secrets while he himself kept his own cards close to himself.

He should have known of course. At least that Arecia would be the one conducting the test. Prompto was to be part of Noctis retinue, this kind of test was meant to find the breaking point and given whom they would protect, the torture would be lead by an expert.

His had been conducted by Lord Clarus Amicitia. Gladio’s had been conducted by both Cor and Captain Titus Drautos. 

It was logical that the head of D-0, the intelligence service, would conduct the examination. That way the credentials of said test would not be questioned, if Prompto were to pass it; and no accusations of nobility abuse would come forth, if Prompto were to fail it. Arecia, after all, was of common birth.

Prompto had passed, of course.

The noble who had abused his position, was Ignis himself.

Frowning he enters Noctis flat, ready to escort the Prince for his weekly early breakfast with the King and stops. There is something entirely different in Noctis’ flat. Had a burglar broken in? It looked less lived, habited.

“Prompto’s gone,” Noctis says sprawled on the couch, and it a testament on Ignis’ dread that he can’t muster to complain how the Prince is still not dressed for his appointment. A good thing then, that Ignis had taken the recent habit of arriving earlier.  

Ignis’ world falls down. “What?”

This was nothing something Prompto said in his text message. Of course, it’s not like he would ever say something like that through a text. But Ignis should have at least known at the very least if officially the Prince was no longer with his best friend.  

“To the barracks,” the prince elaborates, leaning on the back of the sofa, those blue eyes glancing accusingly.  

Ignis breathes and once again, the ground is firm under his feet.

Yes. He had known, he had even dismissed Prompto with such an excuse.

The blond has gone to live in the barracks. It was a surprise to learn the reason and about his housing problems. He had known pulling secrets out of Prompto was like pulling teeth (unless you took advantage of his vulnerability) but to not have seen it at all? It spoke of his own thoughtlessness. 

Prompto going to the barracks meant there was no need to keep his little knick-knacks on Noctis’ flat. But no one had ordered him to take them out. They were welcomed to stay.

“I tried to tell him it was fine to keep them here but he wouldn’t budge,” the Prince agrees and Ignis stills. Had he voiced that? “He learned that stubbornness from you.”

What is left for him but nod? No matter the reasoning, it would be too presumptuous to deny his actions didn’t influence Prompto’s decision.

“So,” Noct continues, crossing his arms on the couch’s back. “Aren’t you going visit?”

His silence is not the correct answer. Ignis can clearly see it on hi liege’s face, but can’t do anything. Visit Prompto is out of the question. How can he if he can’t even answer a text message?

“I am afraid it would be detrimental,” he comments, walking to Noct’s closet keen on finding an appropriate suit. His fingernails are clean and his hair is damp which means Noct had just taken a shower. He can dry his hair after the prince changes clothes.

“Why? Did you guys have a fight?”

Ignis doesn’t know how to answer the question so he doesn’t.

“Ignis?” Noctis’ voice is closer and when he turns around his prince is staring, studying his every move. His lips are pursued in a serious line, and Ignis recognizes the look as the one Noctis had when studying the laws pertaining Beta fish.  

“A discussion,” he amends, keeping up with the prince’s stare even if his blood is heavy lead. “We concluded we shouldn’t meet as frequently until he graduates”

A blink later and his prince is leaning on the closet threshold, arms crossed and free of any tension. “So you’re giving yourselves a time out?”

“Considering Prompto’s current situation. I’d rather not have to put more weight on him,” he elaborates, hoping the words don’t sound as hollow as he feels them. It is the truth, half of it, and still just as terrible on his tongue as the ashes “This one your Highness.”

Noctis makes a face, but takes the offered suit. “Sure. The schedule in the barracks is very strict. You two wouldn’t be _alone_.” There is something in the inflection on that last word that has him turning around but Noctis has already closed the door.

Ignis coughs, and willfully ignores the jumbling mess of memories that were once embarrassing and now scorching painful. “About that, your Highness…”

“I won’t say a word specs,” Noct interjects from behind the door. “Don’t worry.”

Ignis stares dumbfounded. That wasn’t it. But perhaps it wasn’t the correct time to clear the misunderstanding. Noctis might not believe it, or rather, he would and then he could question what the discussion was about.

If he couldn’t repair the damaged he’d done, at least he could protect Prompto’s secrets.

 

* * *

 

Prompto Argentum did not have many friends. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t tried. It was a product of a combination of awkwardness, fairer looks that identified him as foreign and a shyness that would be cute only on a woman. So he tried to compensate by being overly cheery and extrovert.

His looks in particular had been a developing problem. First all children and teachers picked up on him because of his unknown roots (which were worse, Mom and Dad sat him down once and explained the tattoo on his wrist) and then in the early stages in high school because they thought his hair was bleached and it made him a delinquent.

(Also there was that time he sucker punched the biggest bully at the school, slammed him down, broke his nose in three pieces and... well it almost costed him his current scholarship, so the rumors of him being a delinquent were not exactly without justification but...)

The thing is he didn’t have many friends. Three in fact. Well, maybe two –he still considered Ignis a friend but after that night… things were tense and he was to blame for that. No one wanted to know the friend and accomplice in changing a prophecy was an MT baby.

So he really had no defined expectation when his moving to the barracks had been approved. He knew the rules, the curfew, the basics. He would follow them to a T.

But the people?  Maybe some scary snooty Nobles, maybe old war hawks, maybe no one.

Instead, what he gets are Kingsglaives enjoying their spare time with table games and chattering in groups. They all turn and regard him amused and suspicious.

“Hi!” He shrieks startled, and then looks out to the room to confirm that yeah, this is the room to the barracks.

No way. Barracks, here, with Kingsglaives?! Were the barracks so unused that the Glaives had taken over the room and a social playground? Was Prompto going to take that away from them?! No, just no. He would _die_.

There was no way he could allow anything bad to happen to the Kingsglaives, his heroes. He’d rather go back home and have the dreadful hour train thing, than having his stay in the barracks interrupt their lives –no matter if it meant he could talk to them up close.

Unless they wouldn’t mind?!

Prompto doesn’t dare to hope but–

There had been a program before, sponsored by the government where one could write a letter to a Glaive or the Kingsglaives in general. Prompto had done it faithfully every day with his best letter hand and conscious of every word. Striking the whole letter down if he had found a typo and started it again.

He had continued to send letters of encouragement and gratitude and support even after the program ended. The post office probably even had his name Blacklisted at this point.

But now the Glaives were here, in the barracks… and if he wasn’t bothering them… could this mean?

“Holy –is this real?!” he gushes once he’s back and pulls his duffel band the bag with the cleaning robot. “These are the barracks right? This is so awesome! You guys are so awesome!”

“Calm down little bird,” one Glaive says, and something about the face is familiar, but he can’t pinpoint where. “Who are you?”

“P –Prompto Argentum, sir!” he salutes stuttering, and feels even more embarrassed when it earns him a few chuckles. “I –I’ll be living in the barracks.”

“A trainee? Haven’t seen you anywhere.” One chubby man asks, and extends his hand “Libertus Ostium, welcome to the barracks”

Prompto freezes. “Wait. Ostium? Libertus Ostium?! The Ocelot of Galadh?!”

Prompto practically vibrates. He’s going to _shake the hand of the first lieutenant of the eight Glaive Division_ , how is that his life?! “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you sir! I’m a Crownsguard trainee,” he explains while shaking the hand enthusiastically. He’s so not going to wash his hand. Ever.

He almost misses the narrowing eyes, but then other Glaive shouts, “Ah! The kid that challenged Cor!” and he splutters.

“Didn’t know you were still _alive,_ ” The Glaive continues with a friendly slap on his shoulder (is that going to leave a mark?! He hopes so!) “The name’s Tredd Furia, don’t pay attention to grouchy Ostium here.” 

Tredd Furia, the _Jackal of Duscae_?! Prompto is going to _die_. Of happiness.

“Oh w- well,” he tries, straightening his back. Good impressions! He must do good impressions!

“You don’t look snooty for a noble,” another Glaive points out, sharpening his blade.

“That’s because you aren’t right?” Tredd comments, tugging him closer and Prompto goes biting down a groan and clinging to his box. “You’re the guy that was with the prince that night!”

“You were one of the Glaives!” He accuses horrified. Just when he thought that night was gone and over with, this happens?! Is this Karma for finding it funny that Noct got into a little gay crisis over Nyx Ulrich?

Was he going to see Nyx here too?!

Tredd leers above him and Prompto wants to go _home_.

“Um. I mean. No I’m not a noble. I’m a refugee actually,” He comments shyly. “a- and the Crownsguard isn’t just for nobles only.” He adds, because it’s a misconception he had too. Maybe there are military branches rivalries, but maybe he could tear down this myth for them?

“From where?” Libertus asks, arms crossed.

He freezes. He’d, he’d forgotten. Most of his generation was trapped in the Niflheim facilities, maybe they had already become MTs –they had killed Glaives, the people he admired. How could he think he belonged here, with them?

Was there any privacy? Prompto keeps his eyes firmly in front and does not even try and glance at his wrist. They would know about it right? If he wasn’t careful they would learn the truth and…

“You seem too young for a third wave,” Tredd comments, leaning forward and Prompto fears that maybe there is a secret Niflheim stamp somewhere on his face.

“Shut it Tredd, you’re making him uncomfortable!” a woman barks and tugs him out of Tredd’s clutches. “Crowe sweetheart,” she introduced with a wink “and don’t let their bite intimidate you. When you say no it’s no”

He nods, but his blood is still cold. Forget about his wrist, the sole fact that he’s from Niflheim is terrible enough. They would kill him, if they knew.

“No it –it’s fine,” he swallows. Maybe a little bit of truth might be enough? “I was three. I owe it to you guys. Thank you”

No one speaks for a while. When he looks up all the Glaives are looking at him, and they evade him the moment they notice he’s looking back. Someone in the room coughs pointedly, Tredd pats his shoulder twice and Prompto wonders if he’s said something wrong.

“That is bigger than a personal essential kid.” Tredd says after a while, eyes on the box. “The barracks can't have videogames or TV.”

“Oh that's not it,” Prompto says, clinging to the exit like the desperate teenager he is. “It's a cleaning robot. It is very loud though, and–”

“You said cleaning robot?” Crowe interrupts, eyeing the box with curiosity.

“Y- Yes!” he nods enthusiastic and starts unwrapping the box. It’s a good idea dad charged it before packing it up. “Here, you turn it on and it starts to vacuum the floor on its own!” he announces loudly over the robot’s noise, and continues on the different things the robot can do while the robot leaves a clean line on the floor

“Where did you buy that?” Libertus asks interested.

“Oh I did it,” Prompto comments offhandedly, lost in a mix of embarrassment (had it always been so loud?!) and pride (It still worked really well!), and misses the incredulous stares from the Glaives. “It took me a while, but–” 

“You did it?” Crowe interrupts with a hand on his shoulder.

“Could you make it quieter?” Tredd adds, crouching next to the robot, inspecting the clean ground it left behind.

Prompto shrugs. He’d thought about doing it, but then the idea of Kitty had come. “If I had the materials, I think I could…”

What do you need?” Libertus asks.

“He’s mine,” Crowe declares to the –surprisingly- protest of the glaives present. Even Libertus looks bothered.

Prompto just looks up at her, and the woman smirks, red lips twisted into an amused smirk. She’s dangerous. “I am adopting you. You are my little brother.”

That makes him frown and he shuffles away. “Look, if it is because of the robot…”

“You can keep the robot,” Crowe dismisses. “But I’m keeping you. You’re a good kid, and as your big sister I’m going to teach you some decent self-awareness before you get eaten alive in this place.”

He’s never been a little brother before. And if she’ serious… would he be the little brother of a Glaive?! “Thank you!” he gushes missing completely the victorious look Crowe gives every Glaive present.

“Breathe chocobo boy. If you asphyxiate you can’t become Crownsguard.” Tredd teases.

 

 

(“He’s telling the truth” Luche announces during their monthly go fish tournament, file in hand. Crowe wonders how leader does it, but she has been saved and benefited by the information the former Accordian scurried for them.

Libertus takes the file before she can reach for it, and so she leans over her brother in all but blood to get the goods. It’s not that she ever doubted Prompto –he’s a good kid, and if the picture collages they are doing for the Glaives isn’t a sign of a good heart she’ll eat Nyx’ socks. But she had wondered what had him so uncomfortable that one time.

Her little brother is cheerful and a bit shy. But the tenseness had to come from somewhere. 

“He registered as a refugee when he was three,” Luche continues while sitting next to Tredd and looks over his cards. Crowe would call out the shameless cheating, if she hadn’t already done her own three rounds ago. “Came with the first wave. No parents.”

She closes her eyes at that. Poor kid.

“He’s from Niflheim?!” Libertus roars, standing up and Crowe steps away. Just enough to not crash with him, but near enough to take hold of one arm.

_What?!_

“That’s probably what had him uncomfortable,” Luche comment mildly, and Crowe throws him a warning glare. Way to drop a bomb in here.

Luche talks a lot about Accordo, and Crowe herself had her a few infiltration mission under her belt. The situation on the conquered territories was terrible, but she doesn’t think people in Gralea would live much differently. Especially if parents would risk death or worse just so their baby could have a chance to live somewhere else. 

“He’s my little brother. And this is his home,” she says after a while and raises an eyebrow to Libertus. Imperials are a bitch, but she’s not so cruel as to put the sins of a nation on an innocent kid. Screw that attitude.

Whatever Libertus is going to say gets drowned by the noise of the cleaning robot. Prompto did change it with the parts Pelna supplied, but it still made some noise when reaching its full capacity.

Libertus looks at the robot distrustfully. “And what is that then? Niff tech?!”

It is Tredd’s quick hands that salvage the robot from her big brother’s tirade. And it is Crowe’s own quick reflexes that salvages the cards from being vacuumed into the robot when the other puts it on the gaming table.

“Tredd what…?” she starts, ready to complain and bodily intervene if the other is going to gut their precious robot.

There is no need however. Tredd just takes one of his knives and tapes it onto the robot with a little _ta-da!_

“Now it won’t be Niflheim tech,” he jokes using the cleaning Robot to point at Libertus. “It has been reclaimed with Lucian Iron and Tape!” he announces grandiosely and places the cleaning robot –a literal new member of their home- on the ground.

Crowe rolls her eyes.

“We need to reclaim the kid,” Luche points out and Crowe’s bulb lights up. It is too early for a haircut, but there are other ways she could claim her little brother. At least by Galadhan standards.

Prompto would look great with black eyeliner anyway.)

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis finishes washing a plate from tonight’s dinner and only quick reflexes prevent it from falling to the floor. Muscle memory is absurd, two weeks in and he still hasn’t curbed the terrible habit. 

There is no one to take and dry the dishes anymore. Now the task was unusually long and heavy; he had attributed it to many factors ranging from the elaboration of the supper, or his tiredness. All excuses of course, for the truth.

There was no more idle chatter, no cheery hum, or accidental touch. There was no division of the tasks, no sense of companionship.

Sometimes it’s hard to rationalize his innocence. Even without their fight, Prompto is now living in the barracks, he can’t be there. Not when the result is the same: Prompto was gone and he was alone in this particular task.

Going to Noctis flat for his duties and not see Prompto is startlingly difficult. It was eerie to see the traces of Prompto gone. Only a minimal quantity of the objects in the apartment is gone. Nimieties and little details he hadn’t noticed as Prompto, like the color bands on the coat hanger, or the candies on the living room vase. Yet their absence was stark enough to change the ambiance of the apartment

It still vexes him to see the reminder of his absence so permanently etched in these four walls Ignis had started to see as home. The first time he had noticed it, he had feared for a moment he had pushed the blond away from their lives, and from his friend. He had been ready for Noctis to blame him, for his anger and recrimination on behalf of his friend.

Instead, Noctis had informed him that Prompto had applied to live in the barracks.

Prompto hadn’t called three mornings in a row. His last message had been five days ago. Maybe that was against the rule of connivance in the barracks?

(It was easier to keep that thought. To believe Prompto’s lack of communication was due the strict rules of the barracks. Easier to maintain that thought than to see his own sparse message and calls record.)

His evenings were empty as well. He doesn’t know what to do with so much free time in his hands. Once, he would fill them to the brim with work, but now even his work with the crown reaches a limit when he’s at home. Supervising the replacement of tiles and furniture can help a little, but the reparations finished yesterday.

It had been bittersweet. He could go back to his room, and yet the sense of wrongness he felt when he first noticed everything from Prompto was missing from Noctis’ flat was nowhere to be found.

The only thing he has from Prompto is his birthday present. Fortunate that all the pictures in his mantelpiece survived his meltdown. But even if he bought a new frame just for that picture… there is nothing of Prompto in his room.

Nothing aside from work.

“Something wrong specs?” Noct questions from the table. His face is unreadable, but somehow those blue eyes follow his moves, almost as in evaluation. Ignis isn’t obtuse to ignore it started the day the Prince learned about their ‘time out’.

He closes his eyes momentarily, and shakes his head, before placing the wet plate in the unused dish drainer. “No. Please keep no mind.”

Perhaps he had handled their friendship wrongly from the start.

 

* * *

 

“You should just send him a message” Noctis comments after a bite from his lunch, already tired of his friend’s fretting. They are on their lunch break at school and Prompto has been watching his phone for the better part of ten minutes. He hasn’t even touched his own lunch. It’s robbing Noct from his own appetite.

He’s not going to lie. His flat is different without Prompto’s things in there. He was not moving in –no matter how many times Gladio joked about it- but well, Kitty is not enough. Now they can only see each other at school, and even then Noctis wonders if it is worth wasting time playing videogames. There is only so much hours they can enjoy together –and all of them are scheduled.

No more calls at midnight, no more online matches at two am on Sundays because he can’t sleep. No more sleepovers, or wild speculations after a night terror. No more movie nights or little pranks on Gladio.

Everything is different now. It is jarring as it is a wake up call. This is what waits for him after he graduates from High school. Compressed time, scheduled meetings.

This is a test. Their friendship must pull through –that’s what a true friendship is. Heck maybe it will be better in the long run if they are already a team by the time they graduate.

Maybe he could do it too, go the distance and enter the barracks. He’s the Prince, nobody is going to say no. He’s just going to make up an elaborate excuse, something believable and impersonal enough so no one can accuse him of favoritism.

(Which he has, but that’s not the _point._ )

Prompto shifts uncomfortable on his chair, guiltily putting the phone back on the table, “Sorry. Is it really that obvious?”

Noct rolls his eyes and takes another bite. No vegetables here either. Ignis is either setting a trap or being distracted. “Look, you usually give each other a good morning text…”

“Yeah but I don’t know if I should–”

Noctis huffs and takes Prompto’s phone with a sleight of hand “You are taking a pause, not breaking up.”  He says, and smirks when his friend splutters. It takes no time in finding Ignis’ contact and their exchanged messages.

Nothing new since three days. Ignis hadn’t sent a message either. Not on his watch.

_Prom says good morning_. He types quickly, and with a smug grin touches the send button. Prompto widens his eyes and wails, but he’s not fast enough to grab his phone. Noctis has years of dodge training and his reflexes are sharp.

The Flash startles his friend for a moment. After a quick cursory look at the picture he sends it. With an _Adorable morning picture. You’re welcome._

“Noct!” Prompto whines, compelling pout #5 firm on his face. It does make him feel a bit guilty, but what is done is done “Give me back my phone!” he requests, hand outstretched, eyes trusting and Noctis wants to almost give in.

Almost.

“You better catch me, or I’ll confiscate it in the name of the crown!” he taunts is good humor, dangling the mobile scant centimeters away from Prompto’s face before bolting off. 

“Noct!” it’s the affronted whine but he doesn’t turn around. Prompto isn’t exactly silent with his steps.

Alright so maybe he really can’t run freely with his leg –the physical therapy couldn’t make a perfect recovery, and it would always feel a bit tight to run so he’d rather not do it unless it’s was a life or death situation- but he had never planned to outrun his friend.

He braces for the crash when Prompto reaches him, and while he does crash Prompto’s instincts are sharp from his training and with a swift movement flips them over and takes the brunt of the fall. Noctis blinks surprised. It didn’t hurt.

“Look at you, already protecting the crown” he goads, but can’t fight off the fluttery warmth in his chest. If his friend graduates and becomes part of his retinue…

“My phone please!” Prompto demands, ruffled, cheeks flushed.

“Alright you caught me. But first!”  Noctis smirks and gives a victory sign while taking a selfie of his compromising position and sending it to Ignis. Prompto wails horrified and reclaims the phone from his hands, typing furiously an apology or whatever maybe-boyfriends taking a time out do.

All according to plan. Now the ball is on Ignis’ court to make his move.

He’s playing the jealousy game. That’s what always works in Gladio’s novels.

(He hasn’t read them. But Gladio uses _highlighters_ ).

He knows Ignis. People tend to believe he’s cool and restrained, but Noctis knows better. He knows Ignis would love to be in the backseat of a monster car without his seatbelt on. He knows Ignis had quietly dismantled a news organization for having done a small hit piece on him. He knows Ignis’ idea of letting off steam is by sparring with an enraged Sice.

He’s also good at threatening other people without appearing to. Noct learned some pointers. 

Ignis is extra, especially when concerning people he’s close to. But yet he keeps it all tied down by excellent manners and decorum –that won’t work with Prompto.

Noctis will just have to light the metaphorical fire under his ass to get him moving. His work on Prompto can be more hands on.

Not that he ignores what Ignis was going about: Prompto is surprisingly as much a workaholic as Ignis, just in different ways. Unlike Ignis, there is no little voice inside the blond’s head that says stop.

Or maybe there is and he just doesn’t pay attention to it. Noctis won’t ever admit to be jealous, but he’d like a bit of that kind of freedom too.

But if Ignis doesn’t keep in touch, relationships can grow cold –and Noctis knows he misses Prompto. He’s not dumb enough to not notice his morose mood whenever he’s washing the dishes. He _knows_.

The candies were hidden on a secret stash –and it gives credence on Gladio’s suspicion that Ignis is morose because he still hasn’t found it.

Noctis won’t allow this time out to be a permanent break off.

 

* * *

 

Prompto fumbles in his phone organizing his files. He got a bit early to the Marshall’s office, and what a better way to pass time than to organize his pictures? Especially when he wouldn’t have the time back in the barracks?

Cater had said there weren’t much selfies on his phone, and it brought things into perspective. (He had changed his password too.) Just by going through his picture files he could see the exact moment Ignis had told him about the prophecy without looking at the dates.

Before, the pictures of the Kings’ statues in Insomnia were sparse and in between pictures of Noct and just anything else that caught his fancy. Afterwards the pictures of the Kings increased, and the selfies became sparse.

In fact the first selfies started to reappear after he went to the Barracks. His older sister was very insistent about taking pictures (mostly to increase the Glaive collage at Pelna’s home), and even Tredd had ventured to share some of his home and special sightseeing spots like Mt Ravathog and Galdin Quay.  

(He had of course deleted Noct’s picture. Had done it the moment he’d gotten his phone back and apologized to Ignis. Some pictures shouldn’t be on his phone no matter if his collection lacked selfies)

His picture collection on his phone was starting to become colorful again. It was a stark contrast to before, and it only helped to highlight his downward spiral.

And the fact that he hadn’t taken a picture with Ignis. Ever.

It was silly, they had shared so much time together, trying to find the prophecy, and going to different places –even cleaning the dishes! And yet… they didn’t have a picture together. Heck, he didn’t even have a background to their chat log.

They were friends –Prompto firmly believed this. They were friends… but something was missing, they were doing things the wrong way and it took this separation and looking through his photos to realize it.

Ignis had been right. This whole prophecy was taking tool on them both. He can’t imagine Ignis’ own struggles –and that’s partially his fault.

He’ll have to apologize for his disastrous night. But he can’t do it on the phone, he has to do it face to face –and until he graduates, there is no common ground. He has to prove himself to be reliable to Ignis first.

Prompto looks back at the clock. The Marshall is five minutes late. That’s very unlike him. Was this perhaps the last ‘penalty session’?

In truth he doesn’t know if the time with the Marshall could be considered punishment at this point. He’s learning a lot and gets to have spars with the Immortal –and with the weight of financing his home taken care of, there’s little to lose in a penalty.

That and, well. Cor was more approachable after the pressure test. Asking about his wellbeing and talking more. Explaining what happened during the pressure test and what it was evaluating. 

It might just be perception, but even his own training mates had changed a bit in the way they handled him. Neither better nor worse, but different. The training had grown more demanding, making the first months of training a walk in the park.

There had been announcements left and right, scorecards and suggestions of which branch to specialize on, and the last three days had been in preparation for a ceremony next week.

Nine and Cater had been worried too, about the upcoming Awakening ceremony when they would taste a fleck of the King’s blood. Rumor had said that those without a magic core wouldn’t graduate.

(Which was a lie, the Marshall didn’t have an ounce of magic, and neither had Gladio –from what he knew- so really the whole thing was just a rumor.)

Prompto’s only worry was in hoping he didn’t float away after the ceremony. Or that he would flatten everyone.

Coir had been displeased when he learned Prompto knew he had a magic core before the Ceremony. Or at least that what he thought. The Marshall had been very insistent on not telling anyone how he knew in a conversation that was reminiscent on Ignis’ own scolding for Noct that morning months ago.

What Noct had done was a transgression of some tradition and whatever and it would look poorly on his record. Noct probably didn’t know that when he did it –or more like he didn’t care about silly honor laws thing. 

Still, even after demanding secrecy, the Marshall hadn’t reported him. Instead he had changed the ‘penalty’ time to meditation exercises.

This afternoon instead of the usual meditation exercises though, Cor brings him a book.

“T- thank you sir” he says, and takes the surprising heavy tome. _Somnus_ says the cover, after a good five minutes looking this way and the other trying to find heads or tails with the words.

“It’s a book of Ethro,” Cor explains, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp. “Study.”

Prompto is getting the hang on reading the Marshall. For example, if the Marshal was truly angry, he wouldn’t cross his arms –instead he would keep them at his sides, his for straight. Right now he feels proud, or at least pleased.

A strange cue if someone asked Prompto, it seems as if the Marshall didn’t want anything to escape his poker face. Prompto smiles at the though and nods. “Right away sir! Thank you!”

He knows Ethro is the goddess of the moon, the night and eternal slumber, and that astrals are tied to an aspect of magic. Ifrit with fire, Ramuh with thunder and so on.

Was Ethro tied with gravity? Well the moon influenced the waves, so maybe there was something to it.

“I can’t take the book back can I?” he asks, more on principle than waiting for an answer. He still cowers a bit when the Marshall narrows his eyes testily.

Message clear. Also, he’s not going to ask about going to the library, he’s sure he’s more or less unofficially banned from entering there. Perhaps for _life._

It was an old book of fables. The kind that were handwritten with black ink and a feather pen, with angular letters and beautiful painting at the margins. Under it was a smaller book with translations and explanations of certain passages. Yet Prompto found he had no need for it, the words clear enough in the book for him to read and to understand.

He knew better than to dismiss fables. Noct’s prophecy was worded as one. If stories had power in their words, fables about Astrals would have magic in them. They would have clues on how to craft it.

Idly he takes out a block, remembering the form of Ignis meticulous notes on magic crafting. He writes anything he found interesting or useful. Ignis spell crafting was really good (the small dancing flame comes to mind, tantalizing, heavy and colorful), and his notes were organized with care, he put a lot of work in that. Even if he couldn’t emulate the meticulous analysis, Prompto couldn’t stay behind –especially when there wasn’t much about gravity. He’d just have to form his own way of interpreting magic crafting.

There was a fable in particular in the book that had him fascinated for the whole afternoon.

A fable about a conflict between Ethro and The Titan. It narrated with enchanting words how the Titan had made a mountain high enough to nick Ethro’s feet. The Goddess, furious, demanded the Titan to lower the mountain and apologize for the injury; for the skies were her realm and he was encroaching on them.

The Titan, emboldened and proud by his masterwork, refused and mocked Ethro “What greatness do you have, O Magna, when your shine is naught but the reflection of another? What realm do you possess, when the skies themselves exile you once morning comes?”

Ethro had kept quiet, and Titan, victorious, had continued to care for his mountain zealously. That night, the astral awoke when a light colored the night white. When he looked up the sky he saw a rock bigger than the mountain itself.

The Titan rose his arms, protecting the mountain to no avail. As it descended from the black skies, it crushed the pile of rocks that dared to injury the Moon’s feet. It continued to fall, crushing rock and earth, and the efforts of the Titan who tried to keep it intact.

It crushed with such a force that when the mountain fell. It pinned the proud astral into submission, into a bow low enough for his pleas of mercy and forgiveness to go unheard in the realms of the night.

In the morning, there was nothing the Six could do to liberate the Titan from his plight. For what happens in the night remains in the day.

It was fascinating. Ethro was really hardcore, throwing meteors to subdue opponents –but talk about disproportionate retribution. Granted, Titan _had_ been a dick about it, but it had been only a nick of her toes.

Was that a metaphor for something else?

Prompto leans back on the chair, hands on his neck and studies the lamp above him. A Meteor…

That’d be something nice to have. Like pushing a Meteor in Gralea… well the one who did it is a goddess? He’d be glad if he could do that to an Airship or something.

Prompto smiles energized and determined. Practicing Goals.

 

* * *

 

The Social Season is coming to a close. Granted, one of the most prominent events had already passed without a hitch. Noctis did give Prompto a speck of his blood in the place of his father in the Awakening Ceremony of the Crownsguard training, but there had been no great uproar.

Ignis suspects that, were the Crownsguard ranks not traditionally taken by nobility the Awakening Ceremony would never be considered an important event in the Season.

He didn’t have the opportunity to talk with Prompto, too busy with assisting Noctis in the event. When he’d found a spot of free time, the blond had already left with his fellow trainees according to Baron Ace Ornare. A small personal celebration, he’d said and Ignis knew the Baron wanted to join his fellow trainees but couldn’t due to his noble duties.

He’d politely rejected the offer to join the celebrations. This was Prompto’s moment, Ignis couldn’t intrude. Couldn’t stop the blond from enjoying his short life.

He’ll have his opportunity soon enough, at the graduation ceremony.

He had his own duties to attend too. He was loathe to admit, but in the previous month he’d grown lax with Noctis and his duties. The Prince was impeccable in his social events, but his grades were starting to decline. That wouldn’t happen again.

They still had time for the next event, and so a very annoyed Noctis was currently doing his homework.

Ignis had even threatened to use vegetable powder in his drink.

“Do you know there is just one other person alive with a gravity magic core in Insomnia?” Noctis muses out loud taking a break from his revision of parliamentary affairs. Ignis pauses drying a glass to study his charge. He hadn’t searched for it, the risk of being found out –and with Noct’s transgression- were too many. He’s sure Gladio made a cursory search that week, but if he had found any juicy results, he didn’t share.

Ignis had several suspects but never got around to confirm it. After that night, after knowing what Prompto’s wrist covered he didn’t want any suspicions to be correct. Especially if his snooping had clued anyone in. The implications would only hurt his head.

Even with Lucis’ adoration of Ethro, a scarce few of her citizens exhibited any traits of her magic. To have someone from Niflheim exhibit such powers, and to have only one other person in Insomnia… well, it was easy to speculate some kind of relation between them. Especially if the ages matched.

“Arecia,” Noctis continues with a grimace and distinct fuming. Ignis finishes drying the glass just to have something to do. 

Of course. If there was going to be a scandal about a possible relationship with Niflheim, why aim for the lower tiered people when Prompto could go straight to the top? To the person who had conducted his pressure test.

“Were you careful enough?” he asks at large, once it’s clear Noct will not resume his revision.

“Doesn’t matter.” Noctis shot down. “Prompto is _my_ friend. He’ll be part of my retinue. The D-0 head witch won’t steal him”

That causes him to snort faintly. Was that what had Noctis in such a foul mood? There was no danger in the first place.

No matter how much sway the head of D-0 had, Division Zero was a branch of the Crownsguard that dealt with intelligence and lethal force in Insomnia directly under the King –and the King would have the last word. The moment Prompto had officially entered into the Crownsguard training, his path upon graduation had already been decided.

Something confirmed officially in the Awakening Ceremony by Noctis giving his blood. The prince had even requested to personally train the blond in magic.

The seriousness in Noctis though, that makes his hairs stand, something cinder and burn in his chest. It reminds him of the picture sent a few weeks ago. Of Noctis straddling Prompto in a mock recreation of how the blond did to him a month back in the Library. He’d erased it of course, but in moments like these he can’t help but _wonder_ …

“That’s quite possessive,” Ignis comments a spot concerned, tucking his needless thoughts away. Prompto would reject the offer if it ever came, he has no doubt. His goal in the first place was to–

_I want to pay it forward_.

They were the same in a way. Ignis too had an interest of protecting Noctis –and to use his undisclosed abilities to do good. For the service of the crown, of Noctis. Were any of their abilities discovered, it would bring turmoil to Insomnia and Lucis –what with them being too close to the Crown. Ignis could potentially lose his job, and Prompto could risk going to jail.

Never mind that he had exhibited none of the traits of the terrible MTs. Never mind that he was rescued from such a fate.

He might even join him too. Share a cell. Better to hide away the secret of someone having magic on his own, than to have it blown to the public and risk a scandal.

The only way Prompto would reject being part of Noctis retinue and join D-0 instead was coercion...

Something he wouldn’t put past Arecia.

Noctis eyes are tinted red when he looks back. “I already took care of it,” he announces before opening a drawer and fetching a sleek black box with an elegant golden lock. Inside there is a black leather wristband nestled comfortably on the white silk lining.

Ignis knows better than to touch it.

The black color is uniform and heavy enough to draw away the light around it. There are skulls cured into the leather, and words and numbers stitched in black thread. He only notices them when they gleam against the light. He can’t read them, but they ought to have some significance.

“He is my friend and will be part of my Crownsguard,” Noctis declares once he glances back up. Those red tinted eyes have him wary, and such a display of affection and possessiveness raises all his alarms. Is there something more going on? Another detail he had missed all this time? “Just like you and Gladio. If people are going to speculate about Prompto using me. They better start thinking twice.”

Ignis blinks, understanding, and something light siphoning the tension away from his muscles. “That is very thoughtful your Highness.”

Noctis face warms, the red tint disappearing form his eyes and starts gushing about the design and how Prompto really likes his skulls and crossbones.

 

* * *

 

Noctis glances around the living space of the barracks and bites his lip. Glaives everywhere, all silent in the customary military salute –even those not wearing uniform. He resist the urge to check if he went in the correct room and instead shoulders the wary glances. The air around them somehow feeling forced, as if he’s intruded on something –and by the look of the chairs around tables he _had._

So maybe visiting the trainee barracks wasn’t his best idea –yeah Gladio you were _right_ \- but well, he tried his best. His best effort. He even got an official excuse and everything, what with him going on a surprise visit to understand what the barracks are about –he even roped Gladio, his future Shield into it to make it seem more official.

He just –well. He never expected the Kingsglaive to be practically living in the barracks –it does however explain why Prompto’s phone contact and camera roll has quite the large collection of Glaives.

(He’s not jealous.)

It is suspicious their situation however. Why are they living –and it must be _living_ otherwise all the Glaives present would be in full uniform- in the barracks. Glaives as a rule have a regular income on the higher side of government employees. There is no way housing and leasing in Insomnia is so costly. Is it something else? Maybe they are being over deployed? He’ll have to revise the mission reports more closely. He can’t ask them directly, that would seem rude.

Noctis nods in acknowledgment “At easy.” He says, but even then only few of the Glaives sit down.

He does his best to be as inconspicuous as possible, and holes up with Prompto in his room. Or at least that is his plan until something hits his ankle with enough force to make him jump.

A prince doesn’t swear. A Prince however can use flowery idioms in a dead language to express his pain.

Next to him Prompto squeaks in horror and amusement –and he is going to get even with his friend for this, Noctis _swears_ \- and goes down to retrieve something from the floor.

Prompto rises the menace and… it is a robot, with a knife taped on.

“I’m sorry Noct,” Prompto blabbers, and at least that is genuine, while Gladio inspects the robot with both curiosity and seriousness. “Stabby is a cleaning robot and –well we thought it was hilarious to tape a knife on. But I _swear_ , I would have warned you if it was turned on.”

Noctis rises a hand to stop his friend. Really, it didn’t hurt that much, it was more the shock than the pain. The knife is dull too. “You made it?”

“The Robot. Not the knife” his friend clarifies, as if that was even a question.

It is in that moment Noctis is aware of the mood in the common room. The Glaives are quiet again, those that sat down previously pausing in mid game, some are even frowning. Were they thinking he’s going to seize the cleaning robot because it stabbed–

“Wait you named it Stabby?!”

Prompto shrugs embarrassed.

“It takes the rank of the highest person it stabs,” one Glaive, black shaggy hair and grey gloves says tentatively, and yeah, he understands the situation.

Well, never let it be said Noctis Lucis Caelum isn’t creative. He can navigate the Lucian court, this is _nothing_. With a nod to the Glaive, he turns back to the cleaning robot –to _Stabby_ \- still in Prompto’s hands and winks at a curious Prompto.

Ignoring Gladio, especially when he’s about to do a face palm is as natural as breathing.

“I Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum the hundred fourteenth of my line, empowered by royal decree – _shut it Gladio._ Declare you Duke Stabby, protector of the barracks realm, wielder of the knife and examiner of the readiness of our men.” Noctis announces as grandiosely and ceremoniously as he can, flipping an imaginary cape over his shoulder and bringing out a small knife from his armiger to touch each of the robot’s ends.

“With the Glaives present as faithful witnesses of your knighting, you shall earn as a reward the rank of the highest person you tested and failed each month. You may now rise… err, put down on the ground and go forth with your duty uninterrupted until death.”

Stabby fsshed happily as a bemused Prompto lowered it to the ground and Noctis side stepped it, avoiding the knife to watch him go back to his duties. Ah, his first noble knighting… hopefully his father won’t be mad when he learns about it.

“You know I have to clean him out two times a week and that he needs to charge right?” Prompto quips after a moment, lips twitching in either mirth or dismay.

He clicks his tongue in mock reprimand “Do not be envious that your son has gained a title. That’s unbecoming of a good parent.”

Prompt yelps “My son?!”

One glaive snorts placing her hands on her hips “How do you know Duke Stabby is a boy? Could be a girl.”

Noctis open his mouth and the closes it. That’s a fairly good point; still, “Robots have no gender.”

“So you call him a ‘he’?” she teases and something in the tone unnerves him, makes his hairs stand.

“I can’t call him an ‘ _it’_!” he complains, and another glaive chuckles something like _‘that’s what_ they _are for’_.

It quickly dissolved into a heated debate, part humorous and part serious about the genders of a robot with many ridiculous proposals, and no clear conclusion before somebody touched the topic if Robots could be people.

Prompto had been outstandingly passionate about the fact, and many of the Glaives present did think Stabby could have feelings. Noctis wasn’t convinced enough, but he _had_ given the cleaning robot a title. Gladio was more amused but had his own opinions about how autonomy should be a principle in deciding if a robot was a person or not.

By the time the discussion had died down with jokes and silly scenarios, the sky was dark. No conclusion was reached, but the mood was light.

Noct considered that a victory.

Saying goodbye wasn’t the awkward scenario he’d expected. Instead of scurrying out and making some excuse, he’d shaken hands with some. Their smiles seemed genuine and he’d made the mental note to visit some other time. He now has an official excuse.

“Those papers better say duchess Stabby your Highness,” Crowe, the glaive that had first questioned the robot’s gender said as a goodbye while shaking hands.

Her grip was firm, and he could see the muscles of her forearm moving.

Her face was lovely, and her red lips twisted in a trickster smile.

Noctis was _gone_.

 

(“Buddy you got it bad” Prompto ribs the next time they see each other in class “you’re Glaviesexual.”

Noctis just groans, wanting to fuse his head on the table. Gladio was already on his case, he even had the gall of giving him three romance novels about a King and his knight –and one of them had two male leads.

OK so what if his preferences were apparently cocky, foreigner, and deadly? Who can blame him?

Certainly not Ignis. That’s for sure.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I've decided to change the update day to Fridays. Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement. (´∀｀)♡  
> Also, the wonderful [Besin](https://promnised-land.tumblr.com/) is now editing the chapters. It's a work in progress though, right now they are working on the published ones so I'll update them once they finish!
> 
> Now for some chapters notes:  
> Rip Noct forever.  
> According to the Kingsglaive material. Nyx is 12 years older than Noctis. He was 20 when Tenebrae fell, and in Kingsglaive he's 32.  
> In the trivia it says that the Kingsglaive Program started 15 years before the movie, which puts it three years before Tenebrae fell.  
> So taking Noct's age as a ruler:  
> -> Noct was 8 when tenebrae fell  
> -> He was 6 when Ignis' parents died and the rebellion efforts in Accordo were smashed.  
> -> He was 5 when the Kingsglaive started.  
> Depending on the time of the year it happened, That would be Prompto's age too, or he'd be a year younger.  
> Prompto was adopted at 4, but his registry as a refugee was at 3.


	14. Reflect; Deflect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are various pathways to discovery.

 

Ignis opens the door to his room at the Scientia manor and finds Gladio inside.

“You changed the kitchen counter?” the Shield says in lieu of an answer, one hand passing over the exact same spot Ignis burned through during his meltdown. He had no visits scheduled today, nor did the reception tell him about this guest.

He’s going to have a small conversation with his uncle. One he knows won’t win, because his uncle is concerned ever since the _episode_ and he can’t deny him anything when borne out of concern.

Nevertheless, he will have it, just for principle. His uncle can’t let just about anyone close to him enter his room whenever they arrive at home. Prompto was one thing –but even he waited in the foyer, or chatted with his uncle in the garden. But Gladio? For all his foray in romantic literature the oaf didn’t know the meaning of thoughtfulness.

“Gladio. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asks while furiously reminding himself that Gladio was last in his room three years ago.

Paranoia would make him want to look for any subtle accusations or insinuations. He could have changed the counter anytime and for any benign reason. Gladio didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t suspect that either.

“We have another noble in our midst,” Gladio says with a shrug. But Ignis can see the vague shadow of a smirk and doesn’t like it at all.

“The robot,” Ignis points out while closing the door.

Prompto had told him about it. His text message had been so impersonal Ignis had to check Prompto had called their prince _Noct_ and not by his royal title. Sadly, it was a common occurrence. As of late he noticed their texts messages weren't frequent, and repeatedly he was finding that even the redaction between them was turning formal.

(His own answering text lacked enough closeness either. He'd tried to lessen the impact by using an emoji. But his knowledge of common urban lingo was null. He had avoided taking the risk.

Excuses, of course.)

He knows all about the robot in the political sense and had to manage and dwindle the noble outrage over the Titling of a robot. Reckless. The Prince had been reckless, but it was his job as the adviser to shut down any fire his liege’s actions make.

There hasn’t been an opportunity so far, but he plans to have some words with his Prince about prudence and the proper protocols for Titling. Not in the fact that Noctis Titled an inanimate object –everyone in Insomnia is aware of Her Serenity Lady Shatterton, the diamond and pearl studded mirror in the Citadel’s second floor- but that he did it without the appropriate procedures. 

At least this way, the Prince visiting his friend in the barracks passed without notice. The noble council outrage was directed towards the robot noble. The King had given his word however, and the court was not foolish enough to deny him a thing.

At least not to his face.

“His name is Stabby,” Gladio corrects, “and Noct is going to use it to keep going to the barracks in official capacity.”

Of course he would. Ignis would have been concerned if Noctis didn’t use all the means at his disposal to keep visiting Prompto now that school was approaching vacation break –never mind that they would meet each other three times a week for magic training regardless.

“I can’t see his Majesty amused by the whole occurrence,” he comments at large. Ignis wouldn’t commit the crime of presuming and projecting his worries on the King. But if his vision and his worries align, then it shouldn’t be too bad.

“He already made his price known,” Gladio says, and Ignis turns to him caught unaware by that piece of information. “For the approval and the good word concerning Stabby and Noct’s visit to the barracks, he is to attend the Midnight Fast with the three of us.”

“All…” Ignis stops as realization hits and looks at Gladio who nods grimly.

“With Prompto,” he confirms.   

Ignis frowns. It wouldn’t be out of order. If he finished the training, Prompto would graduate into the Crownsguard and the Prince’s service this November. However, to have him dining among the nobles during the last event of both the Social Season and the noble council? Right out the door?

This required intensive education. Was Prompto even used to fasting for one day?

(Ignis masterfully ignores the curl of displeasure the thought of Prompto going hungry elicits.)

“This is dangerous,” he concludes at large. A whole month after graduation. They only had a month to have Prompto behave correctly enough for the King and the Council’s approval.   

“Could be,” Gladio shrugs without a care and leans against the kitchen counter. “You tell me”

“This is not a time for jest Gladio,” Ignis reprimands while making a mental list on all the aspects Prompto needs to be educated on. Proper use of cutlery was essential. “We just have one month.”

“Only if you start after his graduation,” the shield continues and Ignis doesn’t roll his eyes by sheer force of will. Subtlety is not one of Gladio’s fortes. “But it makes no sense for you to not even approach him on this. It will be a skill he needs as a Crownsguard and the _third_ of Noct’s guard.”

“You could help him then,” Ignis parries, pressing his arms at his sides to prevent himself from crossing them. “I may be praised for my excellent etiquette but you are no different –crass as you might comport yourself sometimes.”

“But you are the best,” Gladio dismisses and, well Ignis can’t argue that fact. His manners have been praised by the court each year since he hit twelve. “Was your fight that big that you don’t want to help him at all?”

Ignis sighs irritated. “Gladio…”

“I know Noct said you were taking a time out, but I’m not going to fall for that thing,” the shield continues, those golden eyes studying him, trying to find a clue. Any clue.

Once again, Ignis’ is glad his grandfather trained him well. 

If he wasn’t trying to keep the guilt at bay, Ignis would like to laugh right in his face. Gladio, for all insidious and his extensive education of guarding and analysis could be really blind sometimes.

After all this time Gladio thinks only now he’s hiding something? Just _one_ thing? And concerning their _fight_?

Why just now? At least his brother in arms and the Prince’s future Shield had the decency to ask about it in his home and not in a car, or worse, the Citadel.

Ignis has willingly been threading in a life of subterfuge and unvoiced secrets. Not outright lies, but threading carefully in fine print. He had so many; his nightmares, and his fire. Those he’s not even told Prompto, even though he now is beholden of many of the blond’s secrets like his sight, his curse that would eventually eat him alive.

Ah, he hasn’t told Prompto about that either. About what the barcode on his wrist really means –what it’ll do to him, to _them_.

There is also their objective. The prophecy concerning Noctis and his death –and their goal to change it, to unravel fate’s threads.

A small mercy then that he followed on Prompto’s word –on his promise- and tucked away everything they had studied and planned on that objective. It would have been a disaster if Gladio were to find out by walking into his room.

Ignis studies the other with sharp green eyes, mind reeling in and examining all their past interactions. What exactly could Gladio glean from him? What would he take suspicion on? Though it is a worrying thought, he’ll have to revise where he has grown careless.

Could he divert his attention with a fabricated hare and set him off on an illusionary hunt? It might work, Prompto’s knack for unusual deflections tend to be rather successful on their own. Ignis can try his hand at it.

“It’s not that we fought. It’s… a point and a conjecture,” he starts, doing a quick sweep of their surroundings. He’ll go through all the steps on making this believable. Even if he’s at home, his uncle could come in for example, and so he must do the sweep.

“Out with it.” Gladio rumbles, crossing his arms, and continues to study him like a hawk –and so appropriate the comparison given the tattoo he’s already going through.

“Should I officially demand confidentiality?” he asks while buying time. His idea is still vague, and there is not enough of a thread. It should be something related to Prompto because that’s what Gladio was gleaning forward –and what he’s hooking the future Shield on.

But what?

Unusual deflection. Something absurd enough with juicy details to make heads spin and suspect.

He gives a little mental apology to the blond.

“Cor might be Prompto’s father,” Ignis mutters quickly the first whole idea that crosses his mind and then stops when the implications set in. This could make Prompto’s position in the Crownsguard precarious –and again, the accusations of nepotism.

No wait, all the political outrage this could have…

Before him, Gladio stills, eyes narrowed. Ignis holds steadfast until Gladio huffs and shakes his head “you’re serious”

Ignis adjust his glasses, trying to quell his embarrassment. “It is still a conjec–”

“A simple thing wouldn’t have you like this,” Gladio cuts decidedly, and Ignis stares. It is working. Somehow Gladio is interested. Well then, now it was Ignis turn to improvise –he’d grown better at it, due his grandfather’s gambles and imaginative bluffs.

But he has to be careful. Gladio was taught how to sniff a ploy in noble court. He could disarm his strategy the instant he grows suspicious of being played.

“Have you seen Cor ever act so fatherly to another person?” Ignis needles the interest, dangles the hook in front of Gladio’s eyes, juicy and tantalizing.

“Fatherly?” Gladio harrumphs “Cor is a good leader to the Crownsguard, their mutual respect is telling”

Well he can’t say their conversation after being found in the library was only protocolary from a good leader to a former trainee. Remembering it makes Ignis suspicious. Cor was unusually protective of Prompto, and he had been very emphatic about his potential. Was he aware of what Niflheim had done or was there something more?

“I meant fatherly. As a father,” Ignis insists, keeping the point in focus and not allowing Gladio to go on a tangent or another diversion. “He’s trained men before. But has he ever shown so much passion and dedication towards one single trainee? He didn’t even do so with you, and he was a former shield of the King.”

“He didn’t have to. My father would teach me, and he did.” Gladio dismisses the notion offhand and then stops when his words sink in.

“Don’t you find it curious, that even through the ruckus of an extemporary enlistment the council didn’t meddle?” Ignis had found that suspicious. He had been prepared to make tweaks and turn the nobles in favor of accepting the application. That was the regular conduct when accepting an enlistee outside recalling times.

Cor hadn’t been the first nor the last to enlist outside recalling times. But he had been the only one to bypass the noble council … until Prompto that is.

Back then King Mors himself had made official the enlistment. King Regis must have done the same this time. But without Noctis intervening, or having properly met the blond as Noctis friend…

“It means nothing,” Gladio dismisses unconvinced. But if his feet pointing forward and arms uncrossed are any indicator, he’s interested. Ignis should take that as a sign of victory but the grim picture has him ill. “The Marshall doesn’t have a wife or record of any partner whatsoever”

“She could be dead,” Ignis points out.

“He could prefer men,” Gladio counters.

“The Marshal was first pick in all missions outside Insomnia. Many in the rebel efforts in Accordo and at least one or two in the infiltration of Nilfheim,” he’s listing the valid points on the top of his head. He knows Gladio has read and studied Cor’s file and activities. He has done so in depth given that Cor did take duties of the Shield to the late King Mors before the royal sent him to guard his son outside the Wall. Ignis does remember his father saying how Cor had helped their rebel efforts once too.

This was all making a macabre sort of sense. “Who is to say he didn’t have a paramour outside the walls? He certainly had none here. Who is to say he didn’t have a child outside the walls? Who is to say she wasn’t discovered and taken away by the Empire? He didn’t accept a more stationary post in Insomnia until around thirteen years ago.”

Gladio has read Prompto’s file. Ignis knows the shield is sharp enough to connect the dots himself. The Marshall accepted the stationary position when Prompto was three and admitted as a refugee. The same year Prompto was adopted.

The blond had said he was created in Niflheim. He had implied that the empire rounded up children and made them into MTs. But what if it was a lie told to him in order to prevent him from finding the truth?

Gladio keeps quiet, but his eyes shine and narrow deep in thought.

“He was adopted by a family of the sparrow head district. Quite a distance away from the Citadel, yes. Yet conveniently near one of the Kingsguards industrial complexes,” Ignis continues, as the details unravel in his head, and ties them all one by one.

The Kingsguard industrial complex had had some of the best high-end technology Insomnia and Lucis had to offer. Weapons were tested and should a disaster occur, they would be one of the most secured places in the city aside from the Citadel and the King. Even small scale accidents in the industrial district were taken care of by them. It would be quite an ease feat to keep an eye on one kid living nearby without rising any suspicion.

It would be easier to dispose of the kid if something happened. For example if whatever had been implanted in the Niflheim labs were to act up and become dangerous.

He feels suddenly warm. How could he have been so blind?!

“Keeping an eye without having to,” Gladio seems to have reached the same conclusion –and Ignis is glad the shield ignores more than half of the intentions behind it.

Because they weren’t so naïve as to believe the Citadel and the governing body didn’t have one or two spies. Especially after Tenebrae’s fall. Prompto, if he was the son of the Marshall, would be an easy target for his enemies and detractors. Worse if he had already been a target. Spies would look out for a kid rescued and in close connection with the Marshall and know it was a weak point in the security of the Kingdom and the Crownsguard.

They all were consecrated to duty first and blood ties second.

Gladio huffs irritated, arms crossed once again. “You said Cor is paternalistic. Has he ever acted that way to you?”

Unwittingly, he remembers their conversation after being found out in the royal library and glances away in mild embarrassment. How much of that had been the Marshall keeping an eye of a trainee with great potential? How much of that had been a protective father keeping an eye for the well being of his son? How much had been a fatherly warning?

Gladio’s smug smirk is sleazy enough to justify a punch. Ignis of course is civilized enough to rein in the most basic of reactions. “… the library night huh?” he leers.

Ignis narrows his eyes, unamused and wary “You know.”

“Don’t worry,” Gladio dissuades, but the hands and the ever present smirk belies his good intentions “it’s only us and the King”

“And Noct,” Ignis supplies, remembering the embarrassing conversation and warning their Prince gave him months ago. Gladio only shrugs smirk firmly in place.

What would Ignis give to massage his temples right now. But the promise of Gladio teasing him for the next year if given the ammo stops him.

“So he gave you the shovel talk?” he needles, wiggling one eyebrow before laughing at his unimpressed face.

Ignis sighs, crossing his arms “This is serious Gladio”

“Look, _if_ true – no listen, it isn’t confirmed yet,” Gladio starts, eyes serious and tone back into business “there is nothing we can do about it. You know it”

That’s the worst of it. This conjecture he made out of the hat might be true and if so he’s powerless to do a thing. It would be another secret he’s kept from the blond and another line in his barcode.

The fire beneath his skin simmers.

Gladio sighs, and pats him on the shoulder, quick and awkward. The touch is unnerving, so much different from the pleasant coolness of Prompto and those clean hands… “Look, if true, I know it’s a shitty situation for them, but we are at war. Sure, the situation on the surface is not a bad as it was a few decades ago –but this just shows the government has grown much better at pretending.”

Ignis snorts lightly, and looks at him over the rim of his glasses. “Careful Gladio, that sounds mutinous”

“Like you thinking about telling the truth to Prompto?” he counters with a raised eyebrow.

Ignis crosses his arms. That’s the crux, isn’t it? Until he fabricated the illusion, he was never aware of the possible subterfuge navigating through all of them. He hadn’t picked the possible cues, the subtle hints.

It could be nothing, of course. It might just be his mind playing trick after doing a compelling unusual excuse to deflect from his true secrets.

But if true…

“I want to give him time,” he says and is surprised by the sheer sincerity in his words. Gladio must be too, if the look on his face is anything to go by. “When he graduates as Crownsguard… he won’t have that much time with Cor as he does right now.”

 

(“That’s a beautiful a flower” Gladio comments while snooping on the pictures on the mantelpiece. Ignis knows exactly which he is talking about. It is the only art among the family photos. 

“An illustration Prompto did,” Ignis explains and he’s not watching over the picture like a Hawk. It had survived his meltdown. It would be terrible if Gladio somehow damaged it. He’s only concerned. This was Prompto’s birthday present, and it is natural to feel protective over art made especially for him.

Gladio smirks in return, golden eyes glinting dangerously, hand outreached. “I like it. Do you know what it means?”

Ignis catches the hand. It’s only years of control that prevent him from tugging the arm and pin Gladio into a restraint hold.

“Don’t touch it,” he hisses.

“Catty” he teases, but relents hands ups in surrender, a knowing grin in his lips. “It’s ‘yearning brightly’,” he adds with the most obnoxious eyebrow wiggle.

“Go home,” Ignis insists not deigning the comment with an answer. The man has read too many romantic novellas as it is. Ignis refuses to become Gladio’s next romantic conspiracy.

When the Shield still loiters around, he threatens to message Iris where he hid her Prince’s wolves perfect novel collection.)

 

* * *

 

“Magic Core?” Prompto muses out loud not understanding a bit and skeptic on what Noctis just said. They are in Noctis sitting room in the Citadel, and the wonder of being there faded fast the moment he realized Noct was going to teach him about magic.

It is not that he doesn’t know his friend is capable. But he remembers how last week Noct had been stuck in the twenty-seventh floor because the sword he used for his next warp fell on the floor.

Nyx had been tense the whole evening even if no scolding had come. Libertus had made a small fortune by winning some bets… and then used it to buy Crowe’s extra expensive lipstick and eyeliner.

Trainees exercises were still mandatory. Yet during the covenant trial (or Awakening Ceremony, nobles are weird in their way of giving an event many different names. Don’t they get confused?) each had to study and rotate on which brand of the Crownsguard they wanted to specialize in.

Prompto was never given a form. He wouldn’t rotate either.

Aside from rotation, those with magic potential also had to undergo some sort of magic training. Which Noct was offering. 

“History lesson here…” Noctis says, waving his hand and finally taking the fake eyeglasses off his face. Prompto is glad, those only made his friend look ridiculous instead of intellectual.

“–pay attention Prom. I’m giving you confidential scoops so listen up!” He calls snapping his fingers, and once he’s sure of having Prompto’s attention he begins a tirade of data and history fact.

Prompto tries very hard to not be confused by the nonlinear storytelling.

What he gleans is that apparently, people having magic on their own were a _thing_ once upon a time when the Astrals walked on Eos. People gained magic through contracts with them; through priesthood and religion; as a blessing; as a reward for a job done –or even as a curse. Many tales depicted the heroics of a paladin of Titan. Or the priestess of Leviathan who were sworn to the Tidemother and whose blood washed the shores of the Accordo Isles as a sacrifice for protection.

They all had magic, and so would their descendants. For their blessing or curse would flow through their blood. Unless of course it was a contract for one specific purpose. In which case the magic would leave once fulfilled.

As Astrals went to sleep, so did their blessings. Only Bahamut remained awake, and he had only blessed the Nox Fleuret and Lucis Caelum lines. Even then, they drew magic from an external source.

_The Crystal for us and the Rod of the Oracle for Luna_

_And the ring?_

_That too._

Not all the people who entered a covenant with the King of Lucis developed magic. Only those that had a vestige of a long lost blessing –a core of sorts- could. Something in the active magic of the Kings was able to jumpstart the latent one in the blood of their protectors.

“Some say that if the Astrals awake, magic would come back to this world,” Noct finishes. “There would be no need for my blood to jumpstart anything. You could do magic on your own no matter your core.”

Magic on his own…

“But Shiva awoke,” he points out. It was not confirmed officially, but the Glacian having awakened and being done by Niflheim was a _thing_.

Noctis shrugs lightly. “They must be awake and alive I guess.”

Prompto nods, it does make sense.

But the lines and the flowers… those weren’t magic then? Ignis could see them but Noctis couldn’t. Why? 

Granted he has promised Ignis that he wouldn’t do anything on their project. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t speculate why only Ignis could see the flowers on his pictures.

Was there an astral related to the flowers? Iifrit was definitely out because–

“Wait,” he says looking at Noct as realization dawns on him. “So Ignis has a relation with the Infernian?!”

“Almost everyone in Lucis has it, Prom,” Noct says, leaning back on the armchair. “Must be something about Solheim. Just because the civilization was gone doesn’t mean their people died.”

So the anomaly was Prompto himself. A gravity core was not common. He hadn’t heard of anyone else in Insomnia with one –he hadn’t wanted to investigate either. But if there had been another one, surely Noct wouldn’t have offered to train him. If there had been another one, surely his superiors would have assigned them to him.

Not that he expected something different. Niflheim is far away from Lucis and Insomnia. Even if part of Ignis’ family is from Tenebrae. The country of the Oracle was not the empire –not even if they were conquered.

“What is interesting about specs is that his core is fire only,” Noct continues, and that tidbit of information is enough to catch his attention. Ignis’ fire core was pure? He remembers the fire, the way the flame danced, how it felt different even while burning at the stove. Was that the result of a pure fire core?

He’d thought Ignis’ tension had been with something concerning the magic fire. But what if it was just a complex about his flame? Had someone picked on him because of his pure magic core?

He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. He was aware of the authority and how they treated those outside of Insomnia. Ifrit had become associated with the Empire. Not many would make the association with Solheim. Or most likely wouldn’t –why would they if they couldn’t pick on Ignis otherwise? Had some noble insinuated something bad?

Still something nags at him. It couldn’t be just the fire. Was it the knowledge of having a relation with only the ‘evil’ Astral? Most of the sacred lore about Ifrit had him as the villain for his kidnapping of Eos.

If so Prompto could give a hand. Because with the whole prophecy thing the Infernian was far away from Prompto’s shit list. He’s pretty sure the prophecy wasn’t made by fire guy but the Draconian. He’s the one related with the Lucis Caelum after all. No good god would accept any other god meddling with his human line –and in such a terrible manner at that!

“So if Ignis’ core is fire only,” he muses out loud. “he can’t ever learn any other spell outside it?”

“Only fire spell craft and its derivatives like flare or haste,” Noct explains, and Prompto makes mental notes to look what derivative magic could be. Better to do a research on his own than to pester Noct will all his questions. “There is magic you can or can’t learn depending on your core.”

“Like ice if you have a fire core?” Prompto guesses.

Noctis nods. “Or its derivatives, like slow, or drain. He could try any derivative of course, but the effects would be something else.”

So a slowing spell was a Glacian derivative? Good to know.

“Because his magic core is incompatible.” Prompto states, while imagining Ignis trying a wind spell and just creating smoke. It’s a funny picture, with Ignis coughing and looking at his hands aggravated. 

Noctis nods. “The spells could not work, or they could change their intended purpose. For example you can’t learn sleeping spells.”

“But isn’t Ethro the goddess of sleep?” he asks. Sleep is like the quintessential description of Ethro. She’s the goddess of the moon, the stars and sleep. Wasn’t that spell derivative one of his must-learn?

“Sleep _eternal_. Death,” Noct corrects and Prompto suddenly can’t breathe. “Everyone else can learn sleep, because they don’t have the magic core necessary for the real spell. You can’t, because your core could perform the spell the way it was meant to be.”

Suddenly, Prompto is very glad he hadn’t had his magic core active during the confusion test. What if he had known somewhere about the sleeping – _death_ \- spell? He could have killed everyone! Did any of the MT have a magic core too? Did they know sleeping spells?

Was that why they were losing the war?

Even if only one in a million had a magic core... They could spam it on the battlefield and cause major damage.

He’s never going to learn the spell. No matter how useful it could be. If whatever is in his body takes over… heck if an enemy uses confusion on him… He’d rather die than hurt his friends in such a terrible way.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, come” Noct coughs, waves at him and points to the training mats on his living room. They look terribly out of place. It’s good to know at least they were there for a purpose. “We are going to do some stretches.”

Prompto has never been good with stretches, but he welcomes the physical change of topic. Awkward as it came.  

“By the way,” Noctis says later, after they have done stretches between videogame pauses in a silly attempt to ‘harness one energy’ and ‘connecting better with one’s body’. Prompto thinks it is bullshit but still went along with Noct’s proposed ‘training regime’.

“Yeah?” he says, looking up from his spot on the sofa.

Noct just leans over him and gives him a black box that looks super expensive. “For you” is all he says, pushing it into his hands. 

Prompto looks up from the box to Noct and back.

“Dude. If this is about the prom date, we still have like a whole year and I’m sure you can find someone –Or I can convince Crowe–” Prompto dodges the swing, but can’t roll out of the sofa in time before his friend sits on him neutralizing his moves. Whomever thought Noctis was easy to handle never took into account that the Prince had almost a decade of training in disabling people.

“It’s not like that!” he protest, face beet red and pushes the box to his face. “It’s for you. _Only_ you. A bro thing.”

Prompto narrows his eyes, looking at the box. Up close he can see even the royal skull embossing in the black box. Forget expensive. This thing was official royal stuff.

And it _was_ the Royal Skull. Noct had explained it to him that while skulls were a royal symbol it wasn’t exclusive. What made the Royal skull different from the commoner use was their jaw and bones. The royal skull had no jaw, whereas the commoner did. The pirate symbol was just a commoner craft and was not censored by the Royal house.

“Nothing romantic?” he asks taking the box.

“I’m not going to encroach on Ignis’ turf,” Noct confirms and stands up while Prompto splutters and wails that Noct got everything wrong.

He’d thought Noct was joking that one time. Did he really think they were ‘taking a time out’? Like a couple time out?!

Oh man! Did Ignis know?! Why hadn’t he corrected Noct if he knew?! What was he thinking?!

Could he…? Prompto shakes his head. No. No speculations. He could ask Ignis after he graduates. They’ll be equals then. That’s a topic they could discuss and avoid misunderstandings.

Satisfied, he sits up and studies the box, curbing the urge to shake it. Why now? What is the special occasion? Could he even legally have whatever is inside?

Before him, Noct shift a little crossing his arms uncomfortable. “So?” he asks at large, “open it”

Well, wasn’t this mysterious? If it’s a watch he’s not sure what he’s gonna do with it. Maybe hairclips?

Inside there is a bracelet –not a watch as he first suspected. It is black, which means _serious business_ , and it is _for_ him.

At least he knows he could legally wear it.

Prompto doesn’t know what to say and just gapes at his friend like a kitten on its first venture outside mama’s nest.

Noctis raises an eyebrow “So. You like it?”

Prompto nods, taking the wristband out of the box and examining it, because yeah, it is cool. There are skulls (with no jaws) and crossbones cured into the leather. The fastening mechanism is with leather threads too that end in something metallic. It’s very punk. Right up his alley. He’s about to say as much when his fingers brush thread and a silhouette.

Curious he brings the wristband for a closer examination, and freezes. He throws Noctis a startled glance once the numbers and letters start to make sense.

It is a date. Two in fact.

“Dude…” he manages to say through the jumble mess of thoughts and a screeching mantra in his head. Because the first date there…

“The day we first met…” Noctis grins, and Prompto wants to cry part in embarrassment because how could he still remember their meeting as kids – how could he think of it as memorable too?!- and part in honest affection because…

Well… this is a physical proof that they are _friends_. True friends. A two-way thing. Not that he ever doubted Noct but...

Prompto brushes the dates with a finger and grins back, “…and the day we met again” he adds, finishing Noct’s sentence.

 

(“By the way, how’s Tiny?” Prompto ventures to ask once he’s stopped fiddling with the bracelet. Noct remembers the first time they met; he now can ask what has been eating him ever since he approached Noct in High school. Even if it’s still embarrassing.

Noct makes a face and flushes a little. “Her name is _Pryna_. And She’s fine, I guess”

Prompto gives him a _look_. “You guess?!”

“It’s not like I can see her anymore,” Noct explains morosely. There is a story in the downward slant of his lips, in the tenseness around his eyes. Prompto wants it gone. “But my friend is taking good care of her, I swear.”

He believes it. Because all people close to Noct, and Noct himself are kind to animals. Yes, Gladio wrestled a deer. But there were more inhumane ways to hunt their dinner.

What bothers him are the implications. Did Noct have a friend before that he was prohibited from seeing? Why? What happened? Was that the product of some political intrigue? Court life was terrible.

If it is within his powers, he won’t allow it to happen again. But for now, there was something he could do.

“Well of course. Ti– _Pryna_ is adorable,” he says instead with a deliberate shrug. He keeps his voice light and friendly. “Only a bastard would try to hurt her.”

It earns him a grateful smile, and Prompto takes it for the victory it’s meant to be.

“True,” Noct agrees with the conviction of someone who changed the law of the Kingdom in order to protect beta fish in pet stores. “I still wonder who did…?”)

 

* * *

 

For as long as he’s been aware, summers in Insomnia are terrible. They are heavy, humid and the sun blazes on every patch of uncovered skin until it itches. Sunscreen can only do so much.

Ignis has wondered from time to time if the Duscae desert would be a favorable venue this time of the year. Then again, that area isn’t famous for their lush flora –something grandfather’s house can boast in spades. 

The garden in the Stupeo-Scientia manor is a thing of beauty. Not a surprise given the expertise of their adopted son, and the free time of the head of the house. It is not large by any means –just five hundred square yards- but tastefully planned with willow trees, berry bushes and flowers that bloom in every season all arranged in a maze around the family gazebo.

Every summer when he and grandfather sit in the gazebo near the maze Ignis is glad he can’t visit the garden too often. If he had grown up in this house, he would have grown desensitized to the splendor of flowers and lose all wonder in appreciating the arrangements.

With his monthly visits he can keep his wonder intact and appreciate grandfather’s work the way it deserves to be. If he closes his eyes he can hear birds chirping faintly in the distance; can feel the slight breeze; can enjoy the myriad of scents the wind carries over.  

Granted, Ignis stills sweats outside, but the garden cools the temperature. Makes it bearable. Just enough to enjoy a game of chess with grandfather without paying attention to the clock. Just enough to manage a win against grandfather without suspecting the other let him win.

Pleased Ignis marks the victory in his mental tally.

“Are you ready to talk now, Ignis?” grandfather asks mildly, taking the white marble rook and putting it back into the case.

Ignis erases his victory from the tally and doesn’t answer right away. Clearly, grandfather was playing a larger game.

He owes grandfather an answer of course. After all the remodeling of his room, the swiftness and quietness of the arrangement is due to his influences and financing. Yet he still doesn’t know what to say –rather, he doesn’t know where to begin.

“I learned that Prompto is a refugee. From Niflheim,” he stars at last and can’t fight the feeling of selling his friend over. Grandfather regards him and the neutral looks spurns him on. “He was adopted when he was four. Arrived at Insomnia when he was three. No family to speak of. Nothing.”

The unfairness of it all… and then, Cor might be his father too. If anything he didn’t want the other to know what a family separation ordered by the Crown felt like. He didn’t think it was something they could have in common and yet…

“He didn’t come forward with the information willingly. I forced him.” He adds quietly, and only his years of education prevent him from looking away in shame. What is done is done.

“He would tell you, eventually,” grandfather reasons. “Or you would learn it.”

Ignis studies the easy in grandfather’s voice, how placid he sits even after the news. “You knew,” Ignis accuses.

Grandfather’s smile wouldn’t melt butter. “You just have to shake some hearts before the place of origin is shown in the register papers.”

Beneath the table, Ignis clenches his fists. Would he be able to take advantage and persuade his way until obtaining what he desired? Once Ignis thought he would, all for the name of the Crown. But now, with Prompto’s despairing face etched in his mind he is not sure.

“Origin does not guarantee allegiance,” grandfather continues with a sagely voice. Ignis doesn’t miss how those fades green eyes sharpen. “Your father was Accordian, yet he was never loyal to the Empire.”

The empire that eventually killed him and his wife. Prompto is loyal to a fault to Noctis. Ignis can’t see him betraying Lucis –at least not willingly. “But what if he’s forced to?” he asks, staring straight at the board.

The illness in his blood... There is nothing Prompto can do to prevent it. It was a time bomb. What if the Empire held over him the possibility of a cure? What if the Empire realized he had some MT blood or whatever? Could they activate something in the blond?

There is much he ignores about MTs –all he knows if how Prompto might end.   

“If the unfortunate happens, you will have to kill him,” Grandfather declares firmly. Ignis knows of course, and he’d told his uncle as much. But to hear it, to _know_ –Grandfather sighs a little and knocks on the table. “There are heavier decision you will make through your tenure as the Prince’s and future King's advisor.”

The ‘ _You can’t afford to lose control over them’_ plain and clear.

Grandfather doesn’t know of course. He doesn’t have all the details, and Ignis will like to keep it that way. Prophecy or not, he’s sure grandfather would move earth and heaven to keep Prompto away if he knew the content of his nightmares.

“I will not hesitate to kill him,” he confirms grimly. It is his duty as Crownsguard, as the adviser and… to Prompto himself. Agony aside, Ignis knows Prompto’s deepest fear. The blond would beg for death before he’s forced to hurt his allies.  

In front of him his father snorts. “Now repeat that without warming the air.”

Ignis blinks and leans back on the chair. When had he hunched over?! “I…”

“I doubt not that you will do your duty,” grandfather elaborates, those faded green eyes pinning him. “But if you will carry correctly the burden of his death at your hands.

Ignis bites his tongue before he says how well he’s been carrying over the months after discovering who is the blond person in his nightmares. Grandfather is right. If he was able to carry the weight without an issue, he wouldn’t have lost control that night.

Then again. There was no need to know if he would be able to carry it in the future.

Ignis looks up to his grandfather’s studying gaze.

He can’t tell them. None of them.

“I will learn how to manage,” he reassures his grandfather who nods slowly.

“I’m sure you will, Ignis,” grandfather says. There is a softness in the curve of his smile. Ignis feels like a child when he notices it and the genuine emotion his next words carry. “A word of advice, cherish the little moments. I’ve found that’s what makes sacrifices worth it and worth outliving.”

Ignis swallows and tries not to look at the Sylleblossoms wedding rings grandfather wears. “Yes grandfather”

“Now,” Astus asks while organizing the board. “What is all the fuss that I’ve heard about the Prince’s new legislation?”

A few days ago at the Golden Heart fundraising he and Noctis had exchanged some unfortunate pleasantries with Lady Leuem and Lord Irma who recently had taken his father’s seat. The exchange had been a polite commentary about their newest member and hollow concern on the rumors that the Prince was favoring outsiders over his own citizens.

Noctis of course hadn’t back off from the implied insult –which gives Ignis ground to think the crush might be substantial and not a joke as he had previously ribbed. Instead he had declared the Glaives to be a courageous force and implied the nobles to be indebted.

(The phrase “They paint the outer Wall red with blood, while the only red you know is that of your tea.” was issued and Ignis wanted to _die._ )

It is tradition for the Prince to propose legislation and the noble house to pass it when he reached his eighteenth birthday. A tradition of old to teach the future monarch how the politics of Lucis works.

They had already taken advantage of it when Noctis had used the loophole to change the law concerning Beta fish. After all the law was for the Prince eighteenth birthday, it never stated at what age the _heir apparent_ could propose a legislation to the senate and the council.

Noctis would propose a legislation to the noble council on his eighteenth birthday again –and the topic had already been decided.

“His highness plans to fix the housing problem among the Glaives,” Ignis explains loftily. “According to the Prince, their current living conditions are unacceptable.”  

That only earns him a raised eyebrow. “And according to you?”

Ignis sighs. “If they had made a place in the Citadel theirs without a fuzz from nobility, then their housing problem was sanctioned.” In which case, Nocts ambitions would hit a hard wall regardless of any nobles he alienated with his previous words.

“Overturning a noble consensus isn’t as hard as the tradition implies,” Astus says with a raised index finger, posture entirely comfortable with the situation at hand. “That is your responsibility as the adviser. Primarily yours.”

“In which case you would advise me?” he asks just on principle. Grandfather never told him outright what he did case by case during his tenure in the council, -strategizing on the other hand...

“Of course. That is why you are here Ignis,” he says and raises up from his chair, Ignis follows and waits until grandfather is around the table to walk alongside him.

Grandfather doesn’t need a cane, but his strolls aren’t as fast as Ignis’. There will be a moment when grandfather needs it, when Ignis will offer his arm for support. He still doesn’t know quite how he feels about it.

“The Honorable Clarus Amicitia does a splendid job as the Shield and acting hand,” grandfather continues as they walk inside. Ignis blinks. It is not the norm for his grandfather to give an honest compliment without any criticism. Especially to one who might have a direct hand in his exile? Case in point, he continues, “Yet he is only human. I don't doubt his absolute dedication to his tasks. Nevertheless the post of the Shield is already demanding. Have him handle both that and the duties of an adviser is an exercise on futility and mediocrity. You will excel in your duties and this challenge.”

Ignis thinks about how hectic the last few weeks had been. Of going over all the housing and leasing process in Insomnia. Of advising and preparing his Prince on how to politically proceed with his suggestion concerning the Glaives and their living situation. The nights he poured over every detail of laws -both modern and ancient that were just in disuse and not overridden. The political maneuver he had to make on his own to prepare for the meeting and destabilize some noble detractors of the council.

Then he tries to imagine Gladio doing all that by himself on top of his duties as the Shield. It would be a disaster. Gladio is not dumb -no noble kid who had started his duties at a young age and grew surviving them ever was- but just as grandfather said: he was just a human.

It was good too that his project with Prompto was put on hold. He’s using up all that free time with this current one.

Ignis looks away. Somehow, when put that way, it makes him unorderly proud. He knows he has a place in the board and a job at Noct's side. Yet to realize his importance this way? It's candid.

“I would advise you to prioritize in abandoned houses than cheap terrain. Less costs to renovate or remodel than constructing everything,” Astus add once they have revised four strategies Ignis could use. It’s late and supper will be soon. “and Glaives remain people. Learn the housing habits of Galadhans at the very least. It wouldn’t do to worsen a problem when trying to solve it.”

“That was not speculation,” Ignis points out while adding the information to his mental list. He can’t talk with the Glaives directly for now. But perhaps Gladio can be steered accordingly to procure the information. He and Noctis have consecrated enough with them. 

(He’d rather not use Prompto for now. Let him enjoy his life. Soon Ignis will have him doing tasks and asking him to procure more information just like before.)

“Sharp,” Grandfather muses approvingly. Something in the quirk of his lips tell Ignis he’s been played, though he can’t imagine why –or how. “Indeed. Experience lets me know Galadhans in particular have a series of customs regarding standards of living and interpersonal relationships. For example. Unlike Insomnia and most of Lucis. Their age of consent is _seventeen_.”

He doesn’t need to raise an eyebrow to convey the obvious message.

“Grandfather,” Ignis doesn’t exactly _plead_. But the sentiment is close.

Of course, because grandfather is not a man to avoid exploiting a weakness, he continues conversationally. “They at least make better sense than Tenebrae anyhow. Twenty is the age of consent between man and women, but twenty-two is the age of consent between the same gender.”

Ignis does gasp then, somewhere between outrage and dismay. “You married grandmother when you were nineteen!”

Grandfather does laugh then and supper passes in colorful anecdotes on how the marriage came to be. A sordid story with a bet; some private retellings of heated encounters; crossdressing; gambling; at least a whole cellar of fine Tenebraen wine being treated as weaponry; and marrying in international waters because there was no law against a thirty-nine year old marrying a nineteen year old. Wedding officiated by a drunk Prince Mors.

He will never look at Grandfather or his family the same way. Ever.

“I forged the rings. From their design to their stones. I still have the books somewhere,” grandfather comments contemplating his wedding rings with a fond and nostalgic smile. “I could lend them to you, when you’re ready.”

Inwardly Ignis sighs in relief. He doesn’t know what he would do if he learned those were stolen.  

 

(That night, the contrast of his remodeled room finally hits him.

Even if he is an excellent adviser and delivers Noct’s expectations regarding the legislation, he lost control. While everything in his room was renovated to perfection it hadn’t erased his lapse. He knows his fire is dangerous, but tightening his hold on it, controlling every single thing only meant disaster when unbalanced.

Ever since that night his nightmares remained the same. His only blessing that he never reached the same level of crystal clear clarity. He didn’t need to see Prompto’s agonized face in perfect definition again.

In his bedside table is a small bottle of sleeping pills. Uncle had procured it but it remains unused. He’s against the idea of using traceable medicine. What if he dreams on? What if he doesn’t wake up?

Their project is on hold, and he’s working on Noct’s legislature… but he should also put his personal life in order.

The nightmares would come, even if he took the pills. Was there nothing productive he could to with them? If he had to endure killing Prompto again and again without the certainty of a good morning message…

He should answer Prompto’s text messages. There is even a video of Sir (Noctis insist it is ‘Lady’ though Gladio said the distinction was made from a broken heart) Stabby vacuuming some sand while wearing the Marshall’s military bars.

Ignis saves it in the same file he has Noct’s candid pictures of Ugly Kitty, and types away.

_Did you set a trap for your mentor?_

The answer is immediate. _I missed it!_

There is no sad emoji, which is a shame and a reminder that not everything was back to normal. However, maybe it was for the best. Going _back_ to normal wouldn’t fix a thing. It was Ignis responsibility to steer them to a more favorable ground.

The opportunity to have a robot of his own had passed, but surely Ignis could do better in approaching. Somehow.  

_Has he learned you made it?_

_My buddies got my back, but I think he knows. The marshal isn’t dumb. Do you think I’ll get more detention?_

Ignis debates for a moment but send the prayer hands emoji anyway. It earns him a crying emoji.

He chuckles. It’s a start, he will talk with Prompto but until then. This could be enough. Could keep them from going apart for a little.

It still doesn’t solve the problem with the nightmares though. Aside from their death and Prompto’s suffering, there isn’t much to extricate out of it. The place where they light their pyre is in rubbles. Unless Insomnia falls it is safe to assume they will be outside the Crown City. But where? How to know?

There is no use into thinking about it.

Ignis walks into his study ready for another night of research on Noct’s project and turns on the light using the two light bulbs. He frowns. It is unusually dark tonight. Usually one would suffice to light the whole study. A quick glance out of the window confirms why.

Outside the sky is pitch black. Tonight is it new moon, and yet only one or two stars are barely visible. The lights in Insomnia and the Wall made it impossible to observe them without a potent telescope. Ignis snaps his fingers.

The Sky. The stars that make him feel as ill as Prompto’s touch. They have been used by navigators for centuries. Surely drawing a map of the stars could help him triangulate something –some place in Eos

(Would refute his nightmares as nothing else but overactive imagination if the place they drew didn’t exist.)

Prompto had demanded they didn’t work on the prophecy, and Ignis will respect that. It means not he won’t explore his nightmares, make a map of stars to try and understand what it means.

He owes this to himself. He’s no longer an eight year old boy. Even if his nightmares have changed; if he has met the person he’ll burn at the pyre. He is old enough to see it through.

Perhaps it was punishment. That one with the core of God kidnapper and another with the sister who did nothing had to die. Perhaps the virus on Prompto’s blood was the sin of the Magna's inaction. The nightmare was clear in that respect, whatever was in his blood would destroy him, turn it black, eat him from inside.

In his nightmares he breathes fire. He can practice on it, and tracing the stars in the sky.

Maybe that can bring a semblance of control, make him understand how to wield the fire beneath his skin.)

 

* * *

 

Prompto groans as he straightens from his stretches.

Noct wasn’t kidding when he said stretches and aerobic exercises were important for controlling magic. The moment Crowe and the others knew he had a magic core, he was practically bodily forced to attend their special magic strengthening routine.

That is, a mix of yoga and martial arts with rhythm of some sort. The goal was to be in sync with his body. To understand how it worked, what limits it had, and so on. All with the goal of becoming aware of the magic aspect he awakened.

“It’s like exercising a muscle,” Crowe had said that first time dragging him with Glaive Trish humming in approval behind them. “Only you weren’t aware you had it, so first you have to find it and then make it part of you.”

“The magic connects,” Trish had explained that time putting up the music. “So you must both make it yours and be aware how it connects to you and others.”

That had been seven sessions ago. He was gaining flexibility really fast, and he’d have to thank Crowe’s grueling training for it. It was also very instructive –he’s not going to deny it. Noct tries his best, really, and is very competent, but their sessions tend to derail pretty fast with speculations about magic and whatnot.

(Noct has said it had helped him with his own magic training. So Prompto doesn’t feel too guilty when their session keep derailing into speculation of what kind of spells can Noctis do. They are trying healing spells without any success so far –though they did get some type of magic high or something from a botched spell. Prompto swears he saw a blue fennec fox with horns!)

“Is a pure magic core difficult to work with?” Prompto asks, gritting his teeth. Seven sessions in and he still can’t do a full split and lean. They had said he would _feel_ the muscle (aka his Magic Core), but so far he hadn’t been successful. All he was aware was of the coldness in his blood and his muscles –or how difficult it was to breathe- after each exercise.

Which was weird, because coldness should be a Glacian thing, not a Moon thing?

“A single focus magic core is rare,” Crowe explains. Her hands pushing his back closer to the floor. Prompto is too focused on his breathing, being aware of the air filling his lungs and of the ache in his muscles. He almost misses what she says next “most of us mages have a mix. Mine for example is wind and fire.”

He blinks and rises up when Crowe’s hands leave his back. “So if you have a single one, it is more difficult?” he asks again. Ignis didn’t seem to put any mind, his fire was hypnotizing but effortless. He brought forth flame without a second thought. Ignis’ mastery over his magic core had to come from years of practice and extensive hours of study. Prompto was a beginner still –he had a long road to travel.

“Don’t think so. The work is the same,” she says, before warming a bit and doing her stretching. “The magic core always answers to the call of an astral so the incantation should follow a cardinal aspect of the god and its focus.”

Prompto is envious at how even her voice sounds, without strain or effort, and how she doesn’t need any help doing her stretches. That’s a goal right there.

“But people do the fire in hand thing like nothing.” Ignis did that before, and does it frequently while he cooks. “Do they do a super fast incantation or something?” Like a super spell really fast in the mind?

Prompto is certain Ignis is capable of that.

Crowe snorts amused, “When you’re attuned to your core. An incantation isn’t important”

Something must be showing on his face, because she huffs and then sits up from her stretching.

“Say your magic core is fire. A cardinal aspect of Ifrit is passion and the focus can be the heat. You attune to those three to your core and you can bring forth a small flame.” Crowe explains before opening her palm and doing so. It dances on her fingers and yet Prompto can only think how empty it is, there is no heat, no vibrancy to the fire in her hand. Ignis’ is greater, and just the thought brings forth a myriad of memories of casual touches and the bizarre longing to touch his flame.

“Doing something more complex, like say a fire tornado,” Crowe continues extinguishing the flame “requires an incantation and concentration. The more attuned you are, the better and faster the result. But it will still cost you.”

“Is that why you and the mages are only support?” Prompto musses out loud.

“Large Spellcasting and fighting can’t be done at the same time.” Crowe agrees with a nod, “For larger spells to take down an Empire engine for example, you need a large group as well.”

“So group exercises.” Prompto muses aloud, finally understanding why the special training has at least five mage Glaives and makes a mental note of doing a session with Noct and Ignis.

Maybe.

“You will be on the Prince’s entourage.” She dissuades poking his head with a finger “Larger spells shouldn’t be your priority. Focus on harnessing and controlling it. Meditation helps as does practice. Do you know your magic core?”

Prompto nods. “Yeah.”

Noct said to keep it under wraps that he has a gravity magic core, and while he doesn’t understand the reason (something to do with nobility he’s sure from what Noct’s vague reasoning was) he’d agreed to say light related things if asked.

Cor was already giving him books about Ethro and he had been studying them for over three months now. That’s not something he could tell her. Otherwise, she would know Noctis broke the law and gave him a drop of his blood without authorization –no matter that he was the prince and it was his blood.

Crowe nods, stretching like a cat and he knows Noctis would die with a pitiful sound if he saw her like this. Hormones, quite terrible. Entertaining too, he’s not going to lie.

Then he briefly imagines Ignis stretching like that and blood rushes to his face. Well damn? Why was the room so hot all of sudden? He feels toasty. And guilty.

Ugh. Maybe he shouldn’t make fun of Noct.

Before him Crowe chuckles and that only makes him feel guiltier. He wasn’t even thinking of her!

Prompto clears his throat. Better change topic! “Have you gotten heat for having a fire magic core?” he asks while doing arm stretches –and if by doing them he can’t meet Crowe’s eyes no one could accuse him of avoidance.

From his periphery, he can see his sister blink. “Because of its association with the Infernian?”

Prompto nods and thinks of Ignis, of the little details around his fire he hadn’t realized before. According to Sice, there had been a few nobles who had the tendency to pick on Ignis. Queen had insisted it was unrelated to his magic core, and that Prompto himself should prepare for the same scrutiny once he graduates.

Crowe raises an eyebrow and stops mid stretch. “Has someone bothered you about it?”

Three months here and Prompto has become proficient is discerning when his sister is going on an overprotective streak.

“No,” he says meeting her eyes. Glaives are a tightly knitted group. The least he wants is a shouting match in the Citadel between them and some snooty noble –especially when there was no wrongdoing. “I’m talking about someone else”

Crowe hums a little and pulls her right knee to her chest. “Nobles are silly,” she says while changing legs. “They worship a god of war but revile a god of fire.”

“Ifrit kidnapped Eos,” Prompto points out. Eos had died because of the ensuing war.

“Or something else happened,” Crowe suggest while going back to her right leg. “History is written by the victors, and a God of War would like his worshippers to know he lead a great battle against injustice.”

“You don’t seem fan of the Draconian,” he replies, trying to bury his interest and joy at having found another that dislikes the war god. Someone who doesn’t know about the prophecy bit still shares his opinion.

“Galdhans worship the Fulgurian,” Crowe points out and the groans a little as she does a back stretch. “He’s the god of Law and Justice –but he’s entirely fair. Let’s just say Bahamut’s version of him isn’t very flattering either.”

So Galadhans worshipped the Fulgurian, and they had a fairer view of the Infernian. Maybe he should talk with people that worshipped the Infernian to know what their side of the story was. But who? Niflheim? The empire had killed the Glacian. But who is to say it was because her enmity with the Infernain and not, say, a desire to kill all the gods? Solheim were the obvious ones. But the people worshipping Ifrit had pretty much killed him in a violent revolt... hold on a second.

Violent revolt? Like a civil war or something?

“Give me your hand” Crowe cajoles, breaking him out of his musings, and doesn’t wait for him before she’s taking his arm in a sure grip. She then takes a pen scribbling something in his palm.

Noct is going to be so mad when he finds out! He should get Gladio to record his reaction or something. It’d make it worth his while. Noctis being dramatic about his crush is way better than a novel of Ariel L. Chester.

It is not a love letter or some encouragement words. Instead, in his palm is a book title with a number sequence.

_Sonet Solemne Lucus Cantatium_

“That’s the one you gotta read,” she explains pointing at his hand for emphasis “Has the chants for all astrals for easy skimming and spell working to make your own following the points.”

Prompto looks at the numbers and memorizes them. Hopefully he can ask Cor for that book! “Wow Thanks Crowe!”

“Oh and…” Crowe pauses, stretching her arms but Prompto feels she’s just stalling for time and feeling a bit awkward. “I’ve heard what the Prince is doing, about the housing and lease for the Glaives. I can’t talk for everyone, but there are many that are grateful. Tell him thank you for me will you?”

Oh. He knew the problem with the leasing. The Kingsglaive had a high mortality rate, and not many landlords wanted to give a lease for someone who might not pay the next rent. Buying houses in the city was out of question –unless one wanted to go into the seedy territories, or the decent districts that were miles away from the city center.

He didn’t think Noct was onto that, but–

Oh Noct. Noctis is amazing.

Prompto beams, “Yeah, count on it.”

Crowe smiles. “Oh, and tell him that Leide’s tradition in housing are similar to Galadhans”  

 

* * *

 

Ignis should have expected it to be honest. It had been months since the awakening ceremony, and Sice hadn't used her magic during spars. At first, he had thought perhaps the Lady didn't have a magic core, but she didn't seem frustrated in that aspect.

So instead, Ignis bid his time, prepared for whatever magic she would eventually unleash in their spars.

What he hadn’t expected was for Sice to have been using magic the whole time. It is only when he ducks away from the lunge from her halberd that shouldn’t have been _that_ quick –then sidestepping the next lunge –and then Sice is right in front of him. He’s not quick enough to doge the elbow to his face.

Ignis destabilizes her with a hit to her nose, palm wide as he pushes up. Then he spins back and unleashes a wall of fire to keep her away.

The move was instinctual, yet he is relieved to see her unscathed save from the bruise on her face.

Sice still has lengths to go. But Ignis is not going to be intimidated by brazen magic. If she wanted to train stamina, he’ll welcome the challenge.

“You finally stopped treating me with courtesy,” Sice sniggers wiping her bloodied nose with the palm of her hand, skin pink. Her father would complain at the atrocious manners, Ignis is sure.

“You are three years younger,” Ignis points out. Granted, this fire spin was a recent breakthrough but he wouldn’t have used it on Sice if she didn’t have magic on her own to match his blows.

“The same as Prompto,” she shrugs it on, dragging her halberd in a semi-circle.

Ignis ignores the blatant bait. Instead, he analyzes her stance. The movements are slower. The quickening in her movements was connected to a repeated action. Her successful hits perhaps?

Sice rolls her eyes. “Look, I don't meant to presume, but you needed to let him grow on his own.”

“I am,” Ignis states. He doesn’t _bristle_ , but even he is conscious enough at the hoe temperature in the training ground elevates.

Sice smiles delighted. “Are you?” she dares. “Because, for the longest time you didn’t seem to grow any stronger.” 

Ignis does bristle then. “Beg your pardon?”

“At first I thought you were hitting a wall or something,” Sice comments conversational, circling him. Ignis follows her, readying his daggers. “But you were just doing me the courtesy and not treating our spars seriously.”

“I have always treated our encounters with the seriousness they deserve.” Ignis replies, anticipation building in his veins. The more hits she connects, the faster she is. He’s ready to test the theory.   

“Doesn’t matter. Good to know you finally see me as an equal,” she dismisses cheerfully and Ignis sees the change in her step. “So if you are concerned about burning me through, let me tell you I convinced Argentum to not feel guilty for breaking King’s arm or Seven’s leg during the confusion test!” she crows victorious and goes for a lunge.

Ignis still wins. But the victory is hollow.

In the afternoon he retrieves the records of the confusion test and watches the film. The date of the test hasn’t escaped his notice. What had Prompto more altered that night? The pressure test or the result of his confusion test?

They have to talk about more than just the prophecy, or their duties as the Prince’s Crownsguards. They need to have a real talk. One about their personal goals, their expectations. Or at the very least, one about Noct’s mistaken pinion of their relationship.

But first he has to apologize.

He has to tell the other about the fire and the pyre. 

(Later that day he sees Seven, Trey and Prompto having a mock spar with a few Glaives, none of whom are playing fairly. The Crownsguard trainees don’t seem to mind. All soaking up the jabs like they were lessons. Perhaps they are.

Prompto is quick on his feet, even when losing balance. Close combat is still not his forte, but once he get a glaive to the ground he won’t let go.

He’s sleeveless today, and when he wins he pumps his right fist into the air, cheerfully displaying the black wristband for the world to see and covet. Of course, he’d known it would happen. Had heard about it in the Citadel’s corridors, had done both damage control and undermined nobles that talked a bit too long.

It was different to see it. Black suited Prompto, brought forth a contrast on his skin.

The good black, the one who holds at bay the virus that will one day consume Prompto.

This month is the Victory forge, where trainees will be divided in teams and assigned a noble to protect and another to mark. As far as he knows, Prompto’s team is set to Protect Lord Catomidio in the mock exercises of guarding duty. This means next month…

Next month is the graduation ceremony. He’d have to pay a visit to the shop and see how his request was taking shape.)

 

* * *

 

It is strange, though not unwelcome to find Cor Leonis sitting on a chair in his Crowsguard office. Clarus Amicitia doesn’t mind. Instead, he closes the door and locks it.

It is reminiscent of a time when everything was simpler, freer. When a twenty-three year old Cor would sprawl on the couch of the Amicitia’s safe house half dead from training, half-restless and itching for another fight. They would discuss battle strategies, and an hour into it Regis would come to take them out and _you can’t pass all your life here! Life is more than just a fight you know!_

Cor would complain that battle was far more interesting that Politics. Regis would complain to him that he’d made a bloodthirsty monster out of their cute little Crownsguard. Regis then would shriek and run out of the room being chased by an affronted Cor that was finally growing into his well-earned inches.

That was a lifetime ago. Tonight there would be no Prince Regis to butt in their conversation. There would be no new King that could run trying to escape an affronted Cor. There wasn’t much left of that time, except pieces and facsimiles on the floor.

There is not a day when Clarus doesn’t mourn it.

“What a surprise,” Clarus says at large, amiably and curious, “I don’t think you are up to a drinking–” 

“I’ll fail him.” Cor cuts to the chase, not looking at him even once. He doesn’t need a clarification –not with the Crownsguard graduation so near. He knows perfectly well of whom he’s talking.

Prompto’s team had completed Victory Forge with the highest score in two decades. He’s heard things and read the reports about the victory forge. Lord Catomidio passed the month perfectly safe and without a hitch. Meanwhile Lady Leuem –the team’s target- was neutralized with such brutal swiftness that made Clarus wonder if it was professionalism or a personal vendetta that spurned it. Of course Prompto Argentum wasn’t alone, but Cor would be using plural if he meant his whole team.

“For lack of adequacy or having too much of it?” he asks instead, filling both the role of a mentoring older brother and his senior in the Crownsguard. Time may have changed them, but now and then he was reminded that for all of their different upbringings, the lives of the Shields of the Kings were inherently the same.

Even without their last name, Cor Leonis was an Amicitia through and through.

They shared the same duty, and the same sacrifices for themselves and their progeny. Like raising up a son for war; as a tool to kill, protect, and swim in blood and violence towards brutal death. The world outside the walls is merciless. No matter how prepared the life here is, Insomnia is but a cocoon.

Gladio was born for it, just as he was, just as their forefathers were.

Prompto too was born for that. Or maybe not born but made. Even with the files and studies performed here, even with the reports and tales Cor gave, the origins of the child remain a mystery.

Classified too. It would do no good for the morale if known that MagiTecs were taken as mere babes and poisoned to become grotesque tools of the Empire.

Cor closes his eyes and leans back on the chair. “He’s a piece of the puzzle.”

Clarus frowns severely, eyes sharp. Had his hesitance been born out of a sense of fatherhood Clarus might have been a bit more forgiving. There is nothing he can do with Regis, but Cor is his younger brother. He’s done having his closest companions tarnish their names due to fate.

“Do you regret saving him?” Clarus demands quietly, watching, waiting to read any of Cor’s tells. He was more expressive in his youth, practically boisterous in his teenage hood. Boisterous, loud and resolute. Many a time they had to drag his enthusiastic and honest bloodthirsty ass away from an obvious deadly encounter by the back of his shirt.

(Gilgamesh taught him humility. Maybe Regis is right when he complains they made a terrible job at curbing Cor’s viciousness, if the ones who took him to heel were the master swordsman and death.)

Now his edge remained –had grown sharper, deadlier–, but the loudness was gone. He was still boisterous, but only those that could read him would know. King Mors’ death had taken that loudness to the grave. The weight of failing as a Shield, surviving the oath taken, would shake any man with even a meagre thread of honor.

And Cor had it in spades.

Cor shifts a little, blue eyes looking sideways and jaw clenching. Clarus smiles relieved. He’d never doubted his little protégé, but the quiet stubborn affection he had for the blond was endearing. “He still went down this path.” Is his only answer.

The though tone doesn’t fool him for a second. Clarus hears the little complaint in the words loud and clear.

“Or maybe,” He points out with a faint smile, trying to lighten up the mood. “He was acting the way the man he imprinted on did.”

Cor glares for a second and then huffs “He is not a Chocobo”

“No. he’s more than that,” Clarus agrees. He doesn’t have to say the words. They all know Prompto is Cor’s son. If not by blood, by sheer tenacity and will. Cor hadn’t been able to part with the baby after finishing his mission and using the barcode. Cor had taken him back to Insomnia.

Clarus remembers. He remembers the terrible weeks after his arrival, the long nights of his student sleeping on a chair, arms crossed after keeping vigil of Prompto’s interventions and tests in the medical complex. He witnessed the slight trembling and hesitance on Cor’s fingers that first time he caressed the babe’s head after Prompto had been cleared and cleaned. He remembers the exhaustive scrutiny he did for all the proposed families by the intelligence service. He remembers the steel and tension in that straight back when Cor watched Prompto be adopted by the chosen family after the paperwork was finished.

How much a dedication and worry could be offered to a baby if not by his father?

Clarus too, knows a lot about fatherhood and raising a son for war and prophecy.

“If you were planning to fail him.” He begins, sitting down next to his former apprentice and patting his shoulder. “Why take him in?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of a two chapter update! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> The school year in Insomnia is the same as Japan. which means it starts in April and ends on March 1st. The summer vacations are the whole month of August. 


	15. Somnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somnus blasts in the distance  
>  ~~(My kink is people talking about their issues confidently)~~

Prompto discreetly tugs the sleeve on of Crownsguard gala uniform and tries not to shift under the gaze of so many noble and high-ranking military people. The King is there, his trainee mates are here, Cor is there. He’s not seen so many important people gathered in one place outside of an important exhibition of some sort.

He didn’t think a graduation ceremony would have so much pomp and circumstance and filled to the brim with nobles but here he was. He knew it was a big deal, but so much protocol and ceremony is making his head spin. The last two weeks of training were _just for_ the ceremony. 

Prompto looks straight ahead. This is it. This is really happening. He wants to shout; or more honestly, he wants to run away screaming in joy _or_ fright he still hasn’t made a decision.

He’d been gushing when the Crownsguard dress uniform had arrived in the barracks like the little teenager pleb he is. The Glaives had been ecstatic too. Tredd had tried to hide the uniforms and give it as a surprise, but Crowe had been a veritable hawk on keeping it safe. So much so that not even _Nyx_ had roamed near it.

There had been a little _pre-show_ party in the barracks. Part a celebration on his graduation and part a goodbye. It had been very emotive and Prompto tried not to think about it too much, or he would ruin Crowe’s perfect efforts on his eyeliner.

The ceremony is passing without a hitch thus far. He still didn’t know what the Lucian and Insomnian anthem said, but had memorized the whole thing and sang it well. He’d kneeled before the throne. He’d said his oaths of allegiance to the crown when his name was called forward. Then stood up as one with his fellow trainees once the roll call finished and the last one said his oath.

He understands now why these events take a whole night.

King Regis rises from the Throne, a servant offering him a Goblet while another fills it with wine. That’s Prompto’s cue and steps back. Just as Noctis had told him.

While they had taken the oath to the King, only his fellow trainees will drink with him. Prompto would drink with Noctis, for his service was directly to the Crown Prince. He’d been chosen by the Crown Prince as part of his Crownsguard. Therefore the covenant was to be established with Noctis.

Prompto doesn’t pay much attention to the procedures, his is blood thrumming with energy. He has to consciously stop himself from tapping one foot as his comrades in arms are offered goblets filled with wine and blood of the King. He tries not to fidget anxiously when oaths are shared, and stays on the spot when the King proposes a toast and drinks with them while thunderous applause fills the hall.

He swallows tickly when the hall clears after a gesture from King Regis. It’s time.

Noctis descends from his place next to the throne. Prompto narrows his eyes when two women in symmetrical black dresses, one shoulder uncovered to show a silver symbol, accompany him. Their red hair is tied up with an ornamental piece he cannot see aside from the fine metalwork over their ears fastening the black veil covering their nose and mouth. The one with straight hair carries a tray with one crystal and silver cup, and the other with slight curly hair a crystal jug with clear liquid inside. Even from a distance he can appreciate their exquisite designs.

Their eyes are solemn. Their steps measured exactly two behind the Prince. The atmosphere around them is heavy and commanding. Twins, Prompto realizes after another glance.

By the walls and on the balconies above, nobles murmur and he does his best to ignore it. His fingers brush the threads of his black wristband in self reassurance.

He shrugs internally, trying to muster some courage as Noct approaches with the ladies. Maybe the graduation into the Prince’s Crownsguard is different? He couldn’t ask Gladio. His ought to have been more particular given that he’s the Shield and all that.

Maybe he should have risked it and asked Ignis. 

Noctis stops before him and the ladies come forward at each side before turning around to see each other boxing the space between him and Noct.

Now _this_ makes sense.

He kneels as protocol demands, right hand a fist right over his heart, and says with a voice stronger than how he’s really feeling, “Here do I swear, before the Moon, the Prince and the Crown, to defend my Lord from harm or threat, to ward him with all my strength, to give my blood for his. His steps shall be my steps, His eyes shall be my eyes, His voice my command. I shall follow and remain faithful to Him in need and plenty, in strife and harmony, in Day and Night. From this hour henceforth, until death takes me, or I am dismissed by His hand. So swear I, Prompto Argentum to the service of my Lord, his Royal Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum the hundredth fourteenth of his line.”

“Rise up Prompto Argentum,” Noctis commands, and at once one woman fills the cup between them with the clear liquid. This close he can see the base of the cup has some sort of symbol with lines and a crimson center. All thought about investigating further go out of the window when Noctis draws a ceremonial knife from his armiger and cuts the palm of his hand right above the cup in one clean swipe.

Prompto bites his lips reflexively. Well, he knew this was going to happen. He’s proud to not have flinched. Noct is hardcore to do that without showing an inch of pain.

“This is my blood.” the Prince announces once the water turns red “Mine. And I give it freely, should you join me.”

“Yes. Now and always. Ever at your side.” he answers. It was as natural as breathing. Curiously familiar too. As if he’d said, he’d heard the words before. This is what he’ll do, what he’d promised to, and he will follow his words, his bound. The Priestess holding the chalice blinked, throwing him a sideway glance. Prompto hesitates for a moment before his attention was back to Noctis. 

Noctis smiles, eyes glowing in muted joy. Slowly he then takes the chalice with his healthy hand, offering it to him “If so, take this drink and toast with me.”

Prompto takes the cup and gulps it down in one go after Noct has his own filled. It tasted like mint and something coppery. Noct’s blood then. Better than alcohol by a mile.

“Welcome Prompto Argentum. My friend, my brother, my guard.”

Prompto smiled relieved. _That_ he knew how to answer. Going into a royal salute was easy, and he’d seen how this one in particular would follow. Legs together, back straight, hand on chest as the standard salute. Only this time the chalice was pressed straight on his chest too –right where his heart should be.

Applauses greet them as thunderous as the first time.

What happens next is a blur of congratulations from strangers and his comrades in arms alike. There are some nobles too. Two strange offerings for a dance that nags him as having a double meaning, and by the time he’s back with Noct he’s desperate to find an exit.

Noct, ever the understanding friend, chuckles while covertly giving him a key. “Get to the elevator on the right.” He murmurs “Go to the fifth floor and take the stairs left”

Prompto will hug the daylights out of his friend one of these days. “You sure?”

Noctis winks, “I’m the prince.”

It takes nothing to get into the elevator, and into the fifth floor. It is a private thing, and the only button he can press was the fifth floor anyway.

He still breathes relieved once he steps away and the door closes behind him.

There is a Crownsguard waiting by the ornamental double doors on the left. For a moment, Prompto sees dark red and violet lines on her. They are faint, transparent, but give him an ill feeling all the same. With the lines on her face, Prompto can’t recognize her well.

“Good evening,” he greets sheepish, quelling the urge to rub his nape “are you ok?”

The Crownsguard only looked at him, before shaking her head. Her knotted dark auburn hair not moving an inch. “A bit under the weather, nothing more.”

He nods awkwardly and then takes the key and opens the doors. Noct said he should go to the left after all. He is still not prepared for what awaits him inside.

It is not Noctis room. Instead, he’s greeted with a master staircase with long and heavy turned wood railings. There is no light in this room. There is no need for it either. There are no curtains closing the windows that go from the second to the first floor, and the moon tonight is full and mighty. It illuminates all there is, and Prompto climbs the stairs as if drawn by a force. 

All thoughts about the Crownsguard on the aisle and the lines on people are forgotten.

This place is gorgeous and unashamedly romantic. The railing on the stairs are precious, and he stops a moment to admire them in detail, pass his gloved fingers on the crevices of a craved flower and leaves. It’s not the same as the flowers he sees in the statues of the Kings, but Prompto still studies every nook and cranny.

Ignis would love this. His flat is filled with lovely details, and they are greatly appreciated –at least by him. He’s a man of arts. Even when their preferred currents differed from time to time, he remembers how many of their studies of the painting in the Citadel’s various galleries were derailed into simple appreciation.

He sighs, closing his eyes, heart heavy.

He still hasn’t talked with Ignis, not face to face. In the privacy of this gallery he can admit to his cowardice in postponing it. It was unfair of him to have exploded in such a manner that night Ignis had only wanted to help. Prompto knows Ignis is tense, that the demand of excellence of his duties are time consuming. He’s felt the muscles give away and relax fraction by fraction under his fingers.

Prompto had been unreasonable, and Ignis had done the best he could to help him out. It is true that one day he would –had to- tell Ignis all what laid in his tattoo, but…

But.

He should have at least warned Ignis. Break the news to him gently, not –not in the embarrassing mess he had dissolved that night. Especially when Ignis had been worried about something.

They would save Noctis together. Yet as a team, it was his responsibility to care and support Ignis –and he wanted to. Especially when Ignis was so thoughtful and kind, someone had to keep an eye on him!

He’s not a fool though. With distance and fresh perspective he’s aware his friend is hiding things. Something related to the fire. Maybe something else related to the prophecy.

Having confessed his own insecurities when Ignis was too concerned had been selfish. He must have thrown a weight on Ignis long list of responsibilities. He will strive to be a better confidant, a reliable partner.

He confessed at the worst possible time, and Ignis had accepted him, had kept his secret. Prompto would strive to be the same whenever Ignis felt ready and secure to share his own. Or he’d try his best if something happened and Ignis blurted everything out without meaning to –no matter how remote the event could be.

Prompto had his own fair share of responsibilities both to their cause and to Ignis as a friend and now he had the clearance to do both. Now that he has graduated, now that they are almost in equal footing. He could earn trust and be reliable to Ignis.

First they would have to talk, but he’s ready. If not tonight, the day after tomorrow, after the celebration with his parents.

He smiles, and with cheer climbs the rest of the stairs stepping into an open vestibule, floor white reflecting the moonlight. This might be the perfect place for a dance or for a quiet talk, yet Prompto can’t imagine anything more fitting than contemplate in quiet reverence the painting before him.

It hangs on the windows, fastened with enchanting metalwork. A masterpiece better appreciated from the vestibule, with a magnificent framing of engraved silver depicting moon phases and two Reapers with a scythe.

They only enhance the beauty of the Painting inside. It must be around four by six meters, and yet there seems to be not enough space for depicting and detailing the woman inside the way she deserves.

She has long hair on a violet shade it is almost black, it frames her figure, the flowing dress made of night and stars. Her face is symmetric and elegant. Her eyes are open, and seem to regard him directly. Her lips are parted in words unsaid. He closes his eyes for a moment, strains to hear even though he knows it is just his imagination. But now, with moonlight strong behind her, it filters through the frame, gives her a sublime touch of vitality.

When he opens his eyes, she remains in the painting, unmoved. But his skin prickles, his heart slows, and even breathing is soundless. The air feels different, private. 

His eyes roam the figure, trying to find more details, like the brooch on her right shoulder. Or the red sash at her waist. Or her open palms, fingers extended at the height of her waist. Welcoming and to the expectation of something or someone. The right hand has fingertips in gray with stars; the left has fingertips stained black.

There is something strangely familiar about her. Something that nags, that cools his skin, that weights on his heart and yet makes him breathe easier.

This painting was of no ordinary woman. This one must be a goddess.

And he stares, eyes traveling spellbound drinking up each of the intricacies and details of the painting.

 

* * *

 

Ignis makes sure one last time that the case he carries is secure before nodding to the Crownsguard Fiduciam and going inside.

The gallery is quiet, and when the Guard closes the door, it makes no sound. Barely any light is on, not that it is necessary. Moonlight is strong in this floor and from the windows upstairs. It illuminates the whole room.

This chapel was designed for that specific purpose.

Prompto is here, that he knows. He can feel it in the nagging sensation of loneliness and yearning of companionship seeping beneath his skin, luring him upstairs. It is a ghost of a memory, like the cool shoulder beneath his hand the night the blond bared his wrist and his secrets to him; like the ghosts of cool fingers on his left shoulder; of Prompto straddling him eyes violet and dubitative that night in the Royal library.

He’s here by his Prince’s suggestion. Noctis’ message can’t be any clearer, and Ignis knows what he must do –what he wants to do. He squeezes the handle of his case for a little momentary muster of courage, and climbs the stairs, one measured step at a time.

He stops at the last step, breathless. Not due the effort, but what is revealed before his eyes.

In the middle of the vestibule is Prompto, dressed impeccably in black, head tilted up and absorbed in appreciation of the grand painting between the large windows. Glowing with a light of his own. Despite the shadows framing him, of the black clothing him.

Beyond him, framing him, is Ethro, luminous and magnificent. The masterwork of the patron saint of Insomnia. Shining with the moon behind her and casting a shade on Prompto. Prompto, who admires her. Who looks minute and yet so grandiose in front of her. As if he belongs to her, to this place, to this moment.

_Communion_ , his mind supplies. But only the Lucis Caelum and Nox Fleurets could commune with Astrals and the Magna did not belong to the Six.

The last step to the vestibule feels foreboding. As if he crossed this line, he crossed the point of no return. Something greater than Prompto’s gravity sphere influenced their surroundings. Something relentless and deep made his hairs stand, and a heavy cloak pressed on his shoulders that spoke of _danger_ and _yearning_.

Of something that must be done.

This would be the first time they truly talked after that night in his home. He, always so versed and eloquent, still hadn’t found the necessary words to approach. Could he even speak a word? The vision in front of him is already lovely. His words, his voice, any sound that interrupts it feel inadequate, unwelcome. Maybe even the Magna herself would pass judgment for the transgression.

Ignis closes his eyes slowly, saving the picture in his mind, sealing it forever. This moment was unrepeatable, and if it turned out unfavorably, it could be their last.

It wasn’t a fight, and yet, they both –he _had_ \- let the distance between them grow without words.

In the face of that, he does not allow himself another moment of hesitation. He goes into the vestibule with resolute steps. It echoes in the vestibule, and he winces internally.

Prompto looks at him in a swift turn, as if he was being expected, as if he too had been aware of Ignis. “Ignis…” he greets after an awkward silence. His longer blond hair has settled, and those blue eyes regard him surprised and happy. But Ignis can see the shadow of uncertainty in the twitch of his smile.

He swallows, acutely aware of the weight his next words will carry. “Good evening, Prompto.”

He sees the minute relaxation on his shoulders, how his lips tilt in a small smile that illuminates the room. Those blue eyes warm with a speck of violet, and it permeates in his next words. “Hi Ignis. It’s been a while,” he says, but Ignis knows that’s another way for the blond to say _It’s good to see you_.

Ignis smiles in wonder and gratitude.

He would burn. Prompto would burn with his fire. But the weight of Damocles didn’t bear in this time, in this moment. Here was Prompto, here he was –and Ethro too, maybe. The future, the eventual price that would be paid, it had no incidence right now.

They were just two people in the immensity of Insomnia and the grandeur of the Citadel. It was fine to see the little things too, and cherish the little moments too. Like tonight, like this graduation, like Prompto in this moment.

Suddenly, it was easier to breathe.

“Indeed” he says, voice warm and soft. “Congratulations.”

Prompto’s grin broadens then, reaching his eyes. Ignis knows he’s done well. This is salvageable. The next steps he takes as he approaches aren’t heavy, and they cause no echoes in the vestibule.

“Thanks!” Prompto beams, rocking on his heels before grimacing and tugging down the sleeves of his Crownsguard jacket. “Ugh this dressing is too formal. I feel like a mannequin. What if I move incorrectly and I wrinkle everything? Black is usually perfect to hide wrinkles, but-”

Ignis can’t help but chuckle at the murmured rambling.

That earns him a mock gasp with a hand over his heart. “Not five minutes in and you’re already using your noble status to terrorize a Crownsguard!”

Ignis snorts, mustering his best unimpressed look “I’m your fellow Crownsguard.” He points out flatly and Prompto simply dismisses the notion waving his hand.

“You’re more like my senpai,” he determines, one hand raised and those violet eyes regarding him in mock seriousness.

“Senpai?” he asks genuinely curious.

Prompto falters and deflates a little. “… I had forgotten you don’t read Gladio’s novels.”

“Perish the thought. Literature is for sharpening the mind, yet some publications will only dull it.” He teases.

The answering gasp this time is genuine. “So mean!”

They dissolve in laughter. Prompto’s mischievous and bright, his own low chuckles soaking up on it. Somehow, like this, the weight is no more. In the shade of Ethro, next to Prompto, the levity is palpable.

For a moment it seems they are back in time, before that night, before the library.

Prompto grimaces and then stick out his tongue in clear disgust. “Ugh. I still can taste his blood.”

Ignis hums remembering his own covenant with the Prince. How Noctis had poured more blood than what was necessary, still unsure on the proceedings and trying his best on his first covenant bond. Ignis had done his best to drink it, of course, but the taste had remained. “It won’t fade away for a few weeks.” He explained with a sideway glance.

The ceremony tonight proceeded the same as the others years before. There was the graduation, the welcome to the Crownsguard brotherhood, the oath of allegiance to the King. Yet Prompto’s covenant with Noctis had been a more private affair than anticipated. Not with a goblet of wine and blood like Ignis’ own had been. Instead Noct had used a chalice from Ethro’s cathedral, filled with his blood and blessed water.

A clever move, Ignis had to admit. By using blessed water instead of wine, he avoided Prompto reacting badly to it while still honoring the solemnity of the ceremony. By using the chalice of Ethro’s cathedral and handing it with his hand and with permission of the priestesses, he brought a new level of solemnity and authority to the new covenant. Ensuring Prompto’s adequacy in the sidestepping all the societal norms that would hinder Prompto’s job by his refugee status.

By having one of Ethro’s priestess bring forth the water and with Noctis blood, Prompto was baptized as an eternal Crown citizen and into the Prince’s retinue in one simple move.  

By sending him to this gallery… it was the norm to pray to Ethro after a baptism. Nobody would question the adequacy or social blunders the blond would have –because he wouldn’t be there for the ball and the social rounds. Nobody could complain about his absence, because it was the protocol to do so. 

He’s sure the symbolism is wasted on Prompto. That is fine.

(Or maybe not. Prompto had grown into a Crownsguard, had graduated among the top fifteen. He wasn’t there to see if the Crownsguard training in traditions had taken their root. Maybe they had, maybe Prompto was now aware of the invisible lines holding their behavior. Maybe his candidness was gone…)

Ignis shakes his head, willing the thoughts away. They wouldn’t do good now.  Before him the Prompto pouts, his violet eyes shining in dismay. “Or knowing you,” he adds impishly, “a few months”

Prompto rises his arms dramatically and dissolves in a few whines of not being fair, and blood isn’t that tasty.

As someone who loved his meat rare, Ignis lets that be. Instead he finally chances a glance to Ethro and stills, the heavy mantle back on his shoulders.

It has been more than a decade since he watched the Magna’s painting. He didn’t remember it so bewitching and entrapping. There is a weight, a sort of savage beauty to her, the lines, the details of her dress and her open eyes… 

There is a warning in the slant of her lips he never saw before.

There is a presence to her painting that makes his skin itch. It both pulls him in, and makes him want to look away, look back to Prompto, to something safe. An Astral in her own right and Ignis can see Her doling out prophecies and wording the fate of men, all equal in her eyes.

“Beautiful isn’t she?” He comments, with quiet reverence.

“Yeah,” Pompto says, and there is something in his admission, in the weight of his voice that carries. “But she’s not… She’s not Eos right?” he asks, shifting a little and throwing him a dubious glance. “There is another painting in the rooftop of Aquarian Tower. I thought they were the same, But this one doesn’t have wings or a hole in her stomach…”

The Aquarian tower –the easternmost tower of the Citadel- that has an aquarium on the last three floors. Those were the traditional place for meetings of high echelons, all the finery glittering like the scales of the fish swimming inside. Prompto and Ethro wouldn’t need it. Not when shining on their own. Ignis looks back to the painting, movement slow, deliberate. “Indeed. This one is Ethro”

Prompto hums in interest and he feels more than hears him turning back to the painting wholly interested. It had more significance for him anyway. From a perspective, Prompto does belong to Ethro. He’s the one who has a magic core of gravity.

He envies it a little. He himself wouldn’t look at peace contemplating a painting of Ifrit. No matter how terrifying Ethro was at this moment.

“Why does Eos have a hole in her stomach?” Prompto asks, taking a step closer, hands on the railing, and Ignis appreciates how the gloves display the shape of those long fingers. The memory of their night at the library, fleeting as the ghost touch on his shoulder, emboldens him enough to join the blond next to the railing. 

“I thought you knew?” he enquires rhetorically.

Prompto shakes his head, “No. I focused in Ethro’s studies only. I had to understand my magic core. It wouldn’t be good to keep floating away every time something startles me” he snickers self-depreciating.

Ignis chuckles at the memory, but explains in good nature and soon they dissolve in an insightful conversation about the Astrals venerated and not belonging to the Six.

It isn’t weighted down by fate, prophecy and destiny. Instead it is amusing. Filled with trivia about how interesting it is that, while Eos doesn’t belong to the Six she’s mentioned over and over in different passages as the mother of the world while Ethro –who in the scriptures has been called her sister- seldom appears outside of a footnote.

Eos Goddess of the Sun, the light and life. The Light Bringer.

Ethro Goddess of the Night, the Moon and eternal slumber. The Magna.

Ignis goes through some of the believed connotations on the features of the Light Bringer. Starting with her wings, to her arms crossed at her wrist, to the halo, and to the hole in her stomach.

“It is meant to describe our world,” Ignis explains looking right into Prompto’s eyes, “a visual cue of Eos giving birth to our world”

“But there is nothing in it. Only darkness,” Prompto counters. “It should be loss, as if something was taken from her.”

Prompto’s middle is firm and whole. Ignis averts his eyes guiltily, suddenly aware how different it is in his nightmares. It’s pierced in them, blood oozing from it, black and burning his arm as he tries to hold him.

It is easy to imagine loss when put in such a context.

“If she was a mother, once her child grows up she will irremediably lose them,” Ignis concedes. “Sometimes visual cues are more metaphorical than literal.”

Next to him Prompto gasps shocked, and he belatedly remembers that Prompto appreciates art on a level seldom do. He’s in danger to be called a heathen.

“ _Only_ sometimes?” he ribs. “This isn’t a meager book Ignis!”

That just unleashes another light discussion on what the visual cues are for Ethro. The Kingdom of Lucis, and Insomnia in particular, did a painstaking job on keeping the memory of the Magna alive and preserve the traditions. When one is sleeping the other is awake, waiting for the instant they meet each other in dream and vision before renewing the cycle.

“Oh I remember that,” Prompto says brimming with enthusiasm. “The poem of the beginning of the world”

It is Ignis’ turn to hear the story about how Eos came and brought life, but it had no will and so Ethro stepped from her shade and gave them an end. How Ifrit appeared and breathed fire and imagination to create; how Shiva shivered to existence in order to soothe their ambitions, and so on until Bahamut descended and spurned conflict and growth.

“They are all quite benevolent there,” Ignis concludes, a bit mesmerized by the recital. He had never been quite religious. With the knowledge of the Astrals and the prophecy, he slid right to the heretic. Yet Prompto’s words carried meaning, a depth on their own that bewitched, that nagged and told him they were important.

“Maybe it wasn’t so bad at first,” Prompto agrees. “Though I’d rather side with Ethro than any of the Six. She’s better,” he adds with pride.

Ignis snorts softly. When Prompto regards him, those violet eyes shining in askance he murmurs solemnly:

"Odour of blood on the ancestral stair! And we that have shed none must gather there; And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon."

Prompto whistles lowly “That’s hardcore.”

“Part of the Hymn of Insomnia,” Ignis explains, looking back to the painting of the Magna. “Ethro is the Patron Saint of the city.”

“Creepy…” Prompto chorus, but Ignis is aware of the interest and awe in his voice. His fascination with skulls and death should have been the first hint of his magic core. Maybe he was meant to have one in the first place, even if Cor had been his father, or Niflheim had taken him for the MT program. “Was that what the lady was singing? In the museum with the model of Insomnia?”

Ignis smiles at the fond memory. How curiously cyclical their encounters are. “Yes.”

“That doesn't seem to be very kind hymn.” Prompto muses.

“Ethro is not the astral of kindness,” Ignis reminds Prompto with a quick glance “though she can be kind.” He amends, looking back at the painting. It is bewitching like this, with the full moon behind her. It gives her a presence, almost as if she were here with them, witnessing and attentive.

Another moment pass in silent contemplation.

“Oh!” Prompto says suddenly, snapping his fingers in realization and looks over to him “So blood. Like the pact?”

It takes a moment to realize what Prompto is referring to the blood covenant at the graduation ceremony and blinks slowly. He’d never thought about it that way, but connections can be made “It might be so…” he muses out loud. “Though as his Highness ought to have explained, his blood is crucial in establishing the covenant permanently.”

“So blood on her stair, and clamor of blood… Hey,” Prompto calls, and suddenly Ignis is aware of how close they are, their shoulders almost touching. “Do you think Ethro would like a feast with _their_ blood?” His voice is hushed, but those violet eyes pin him meaningfully. There is only one being Ignis believes Prompto would desire death and sacrifice upon. Six to be exact.

Ignis closes his eyes for a moment. Blood in her halls, in her stairs...

“Maybe.” He concludes, and the pleased smile it earns him has him both wary and interested. So much he can’t help but add, “You are quite enthusiastic about Ethro’s thirst.”

The blond only raises an eyebrow. “Aren't you with Ifrit’s?”

The words catch him unguarded.

“No, I'm afraid.” He says after a pause, still unusually warm.  It was hard to reconcile fire with a villainous figure. Moreover, to know his fire had come out of nowhere, by itself and whatever ominous ties it had with him... At least those that developed a magic core through the covenant had it possible because the blood of the King. There ought to be an intermediary. But for him, who developed magic on his own… It was better to keep it out of mind.

In front of him Prompto is frowning. They had too much time together for him to read worry on every inch of his face, in the tense line of his shoulders. Ignis tries to smile, if only to allay the worry momentarily.

There are things he must tell him. But not yet. Not here.

“You are brave,” he says instead, and Prompto blinks, surprised. “I'd thought given the circumstances,” and there he pauses, giving a quick glance to the covered wrist “you would reject everything about it.”

About blood and death. About a Goddess whose realm was too close to the purpose the Empire ordained for you as a kid.

The blond swallows, nodding a little and looks back to the painting.

“I'd thought so at first you know. But then I remembered why I wanted to join the Kingsguard...” Prompto says shyly after a long moment of contemplation. His posture is relaxed, but his violet eyes are looking somewhere else “…and about that, I’m sorry, Ignis.” He continues with a firmer voice, eyes back to him. “It was unfair having blown up like that. You didn’t deserve to have that meltdown right on your face.”

Ignis shakes his head, but Prompto cuts in before he can even say something “What I mean is –I understood the thing about not burning out.” He explains facing him squarely “and yeah I freaked out, sorry about it.”

Ignis never thought a sincere apology could weight his heart, his soul, so heavily with regret and guilt. “My apologies,” he whispers, trying to breathe in the suddenly heavy mood and not be strangled trying. “My eloquence was rather lacking and it caused you grief. Caused more than what you had already.”

Funny how he’s again being tested. Only this time he’s aware, he’s reminded of what the consequences would be.

“You said that the words caused me grief,” Prompto begins shaking his head. “But Ignis, there was no way you knew that when you told me,” he points out gesticulating with a hand “and if you think you’re guilty. Then I should apologize for that. My handling of the situation was terrible.”

This is ridiculous. His fingers twitch. “But I should have known-!”

“Ignis you are not a ninja who can know everything that happens to me,” Prompto cuts in, voice even, and for the first time it finally sinks in that the blond has matured in the few months they were apart. “ _And_ you were right.” he insists, earnest and sincere and Ignis is unable to decide whether to feel relieved or ashamed that Prompto doesn’t think ill of him for snubbing him that night. “And honestly, I can’t blame you about eloquence, that’d be… what’s the word…?”

“Presumptuous?” he suggest halfheartedly.

Prompto snorts, and looks at him wryly “I was going with hypocritical.”

Oh.

Ignis smiles relieved, and the mood lifts to something playful. Prompto is a terrific young man, he’s glad to have met him –even if in the end they ought to burn.

“I still apologize” Ignis repeats, and ignores the mulish moue on Prompto’s face. Maybe they will never reach an agreement in this topic in particular, but the mood has lifted. He feels adventurous enough to show the briefcase to Prompto, certain that at least the contents won’t be rejected. “What I meant to say, the circumstances of your birth have no relevance in determining who you are. It is what you do with your life that does. You're terrific Prompto.”

The blond stares at him in the greatest replica of a deer caught in the lights, looking far younger than he is. It last only a moment, then he’s ducking, cheeks pink, a hand rubbing his neck. But Ignis can see the smile.

He lets the other be.

“I didn’t do as much as I could to contact you. And it must have hurt you as well. I’m sorry. –and Thanks Ignis, really.” He says after he composes a little, voice tight, violet eyes honest and shining, as if Ignis had taken a terrible weight off his shoulders. Like that, the distance between them disappears. No, the bridge that connects them grows stronger.

He smiles, internally relieved after finally mending the breach. He knows this won’t solve everything, but it’s a start. “You’re welcome.” 

“Wait.”  Prompto furrows his eyebrows and then ads, “…wasn’t that from the Pokemon movie?”

Ignis freezes. Before him Prompto’s smile morphs into a smirk.

“I have no idea what you speak of” he lies through his teeth.

“Not believing it Ignis. You just quoted Mewtwo to me” he accuses, gleefully. “You won’t take that back.”

“Be as it may,” Ignis concedes. “I was being sincere”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” Prompto winks, and then leans forward adding meaningfully. “ _All_ of them.”

Ignis freezes.

Prompto’s smile morph into something wistful. It looks out of place and Ignis wants it gone. Something must show on his face because the blond looks away and says, “You were worried about something that night and I just…”

“I was worried you were mugged,” Ignis interrupts embarrassed. No more misunderstandings. At least concerning that night.

“What?” Prompto asks startled, and Ignis does his best to avoid those inquisitive violet eyes.

“You said you hadn’t since you were thirteen but I still worry,” he confesses. 

“Ace gave me a lift,” Prompto explains. Ignis knew of course. Ace had asked about Prompto when they saw each other the following Tuesday. More than just ask, now that he thinks about it. “… and I’ve only been mobbed twice. Once when I was ten, and then the one at thirteen” he elaborates with a shrug.

Internally, Ignis sighs in relief. No four year old Prompto being mobbed at the very least. Good. “I should have called a cab for you. You were–“

“It could have been worse,” Prompto refutes shaking his head. “Trust me. Also my parents were there. They took me home.”

Ignis tries not to frown at that. His uncle had explained it, but it is still suspicious. How could they have arrived in such a short notice and at Ignis’ home? But if Prompto hasn’t questioned he wouldn’t either. For now.

The fact that Cor might be Prompto’s father still elicits a protective streak.

Because Ignis knows what is like to be forbidden to meet a family member. Grandfather was exiled from the Citadel and –well Ignis never _had_ resented serving the Crown, but still misses him. But Prompto had a father, and it was the Crown that separated them too –for the good of Lucis if not for their own.

Ignis can’t quite forgive it –can’t quite let it be.

He ignores the motive of Grandfather’s exile, but Prompto was a kid.

“They have my thanks,” Ignis says instead. No matter the means that sent them there in such a short notice, they took care of Prompto. That’s what counts. 

That would be it, but the blond crosses his arms and looks at him sideways. “Was that it? The mugging?” he asks mildly.

Ignis can confirm it. Can say there was nothing else. He doesn’t need to know what happened after. Knowing the blond he would feel responsible for Ignis’ mistakes. That simply wouldn’t do.

He’s ready to say it and the stops.

No. That would be a lie. Denying it would mean falling back on the familiar and flawed. It would be consciously making the same mistakes that made that night a disaster.

Next to him Prompto leans a little uncrossing his arms. “Ignis?” he asks, and the concern in his tone is unmistaken.  

“Earlier that day,” he begins, remembering the conversation with his uncle. How much of it had predisposed his meeting with Prompto? The fable had bothered him, and it was due time he admitted it. “I had found a story about Ifrit that…” Ignis stops, unwilling to admit it had been too close to home. The burning man, the pyre… it had been the same result even if the Infernian had two radically different reasons for lighting it.

(That he had finally voiced to his uncle that he would kill Prompto.)

(Maybe he should have been more self-aware)

Next so him Prompto smiles and gives him a slight nudge. “You can share it with me. I won’t judge.” He says and then gives a little nod to the painting. “Remember who I answer to.”

The understanding is sweet, and it reminds him of the lies he’s kept from the other. It reminds him of his room, remodeled after his meltdown; of the map he’s making; of Prompto’s state when the illness takes over.  Of Prompto growing afraid believing to be a war orphan and a refugee, ignoring that his father was alive and recently they were on speaking terms.

Ignis clears his throat, ready to talk when he registers the weight on his left hand. His fingers ache for how tight he’s gripping the handle. He sighs. He’ll tell Prompto eventually. At a proper place.

Tonight is not the time.

“Prompto, if I may,” he begins and offers the case to the blond. “It is the norm to offer a present for a celebration.” He elaborates once he’s faced with a perplexed stare.

“For me?” Prompto questions, voice dubitative but curious. “Ignis?”

“Open it,” he suggests, voice low, and holds it so the blond can open it on his own time.

Inside the case were two revolvers. One a present for the birthday he missed; the other for celebration on his latest achievement. One in gold and copper, the other in faded silver. There are scattered petals of chrysanthemum and lilies finely cut on the handle, and they swirled their way around a detailed skull and crossbones motif. It repeated on the barrel and in the cylinder where each chamber had a flower and a bone. Wings covered both the trigger chamber, the front sight and the hammer.

Their length and weight perfectly fitting for someone of Prompto’s size. He’d made extra emphasis to not sacrifice a comfortable grip for harmonious and detailed cravings.

Money was no issue.

Prompto stares at them, brushing his fingers with reverent slowness over each. Ignis is inwardly pleased as the blond takes one and swirled it around, playing it with ease.

“I gather they are to your liking?” he asks, once Prompto stops playing with them, and places them back inside with attentive care. The look of sincere astonishment and wonder is enough of an answer. It pleases him, gratified him deeply in places he wasn’t aware he had. Tonight he won’t deny them.

“To my liking?” Prompto squeaks disbelieving, eyes still detailing one of his guns “Ignis they are amazing, so gorgeous… where did you get them?!”

Ignis sees when the realization catches Prompto. It fills him with satisfaction to know his present well received. The smile and gladness on Prompto’s beautiful face.

The astonished look sits well with Prompto, he muses idly, just like joy.

He’s not prepared to have an armful of happy recently graduated blond Crownsguard however.

It is clumsy. The case falls loudly on the floor and then he’s holding them both, balancing their weight to stay on their feet. He’s surprised by the boldness, and he will reprimand such an invasion of his privacy at any moment now. He intends to do it the moment Prompto’s feet are firm on the floor.

Instead, he keeps the embrace, tightens it. He lets the sensations wash over him, the coldness, like a breeze in summer, soothes. It is easier to breathe. Prompto has always been cold. Yet like this, his physicality is undeniable, and Ignis finds he treasures it.

(Prompto's ribcage is firm and healthy. He can tighten his hold, press his palm on each side inquisitively and nothing gives. Prompto breathes pleased and alive in his arms and in the next heartbeat something in Ignis gives, eases away.)

(He hadn’t known he needed this until now. The contrast. The touch.)

Perhaps it is only a vestige of nostalgia from the awkwardness of that night in the library. Perhaps it’s only because it has been so long since someone has been so close –since he’d let someone be so close. Yet he finds Prompto’s arms around his neck, his face pressed against his shoulder, more appealing than any stray touch from a noble with their obnoxiously warm hands.

Maybe it’s something else. Maybe is just the relief of knowing they would be fine. The contentment of knowing his present was so earnestly appreciated.

Prompto’s hair is shoulder length now, and like this, it tickles his nose. Ignis doesn’t care.

The ghost of this will remain with him, and it thrills him. He involuntarily shivers at the prospect.

He’s aware that this will only bring him sorrow. It will make him wonder if the next embrace will be the one followed by ashes, fire and death.

Tonight he decides to be selfish and indulge.

“Thank you,” Prompto says again, his voice muffled on his shoulder. Ignis has always been humbled by the other’s gratitude, yet this is the most tender so far.

Ignis closes his eyes, savoring the words, their contact “You’re welcome. Though I am afraid, they fire normal bullets. No magic.” he whispers, shifting a little so their weight evens out to being comfortable.

Prompto chuckles and Ignis can feel the vibrations on his skin. “These babies are amazing just the way they are. And who knows? Maybe they’ll fire bullets one day!”

Ignis huffs. “I don’t presume to be an expert. But that is not how guns work.”

“You lack faith!” the blond tuts and takes a step back. The coolness he leaves behind is unpleasant, but Ignis endures it.

“We both do,” he points out, one part humorous and three parts serious. Sensing the shift in mood Prompto looks up and Ignis nods. “We will continue tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow” Prompto corrects. “Mom and dad might be at home. I want to celebrate with them as well.”

“The day after tomorrow.” He amends, and gets lost in the quiet moment with Ethro’s painting and the moon as their only witnesses.

“And then we are gonna save Noctis from his stupid death!” Prompto cheers.

Someone steps in the vestibule, sound stark and empty. Ignis turns around to see Noctis marching forward eyes stormy, “Save me from what, exactly?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who believe in the biggest misunderstanding of the Century™: ~~Noctis~~ , Iris Amicitia, some unnamed people in the Citadel, Cor (and Clarus Amicitia, and Regis, and Cid, and Weskham), Gladio, the (future) class Zero.  
> (What? Did you think this list was just for fun?)
> 
> The hymn of insomnia are the first, third and fourth stanzas of the Poem “Blood and the Moon” by William Butler Yeats. I just took some lines from it.  
> Was Ethro really there, or was it just Ignis imagination? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Working title was: watch Ignis be a romantic in love and never notice
> 
> So! I'm sorry for being radio silent for a while. I miscalculated and work was heavy these past weeks. I was able to work in these two chapters during breaks, and with enough time I think I got all the spelling errors covered. So you guys have a double update (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  
> The craziness at work may end this week but who knows. So heads up! I won't be updating any more this week and probably the next.  
> Will the first week of August have a double update? who knows? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It will have one chapter at the very least.  
> As always thank you for reading! and thank you very much for your patience!


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